II.OXA-DALRYMn 


TRAUMEREI 


Of?  GAL1F.  LttJKAKY. 


THERE    WAS    A    WISTFUL     CARESS     IN     THE    VERY    TOUCH     OF    THE    LAD'S 
LEAN,    BROWN    FINGERS 


TRAUMEREI 

By    LEONA    DALRYMPLE 

AUTHOR    OF     UNCLE    NOAH'S    CHRISTMAS    INSPIRATION 


ILLUSTRATIONS      BY 

C.     F.     PETERS 


NEW  YORK   :  1912   :  PUBLISHED 
BY  McBRIDE,  NAST  &  COMPANY 


COPTKIGHT,    1912,   BY 

McBRIDE,  NAST  &  COMPANY 


Published  April, 


TO    MY 

MOTHER  AND  FATHER 


2129033 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I    A  PURCHASE 1 

II      A  DISCOVERY 8 

III  BEBITOLA 17 

IV  LAUBETTA 42 

V    "THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE" 53 

VI    NOCTUBNIA 66 

VII    MB.   PHILIP   AINSWOBTH 77 

VIII    THE  LAMBEBTIS 92 

IX    A   BBASS   BUTTON 124 

X    COUNT   TEODOBO   DI   GOMTTO 132 

.    XI    NICCOLO'B   VISITOB 146 

XII    Ox  THE  CLIFFS fc    ....  156 

XIII  THE  STORY  OF  A  VIOLIN 174 

XIV  A    SELF-INQOTSITOB 187 

XV    AUNT   EMILIA 192 

XVI    THE    STOBM 202 

XVII    MB.    AINSWOBTH   ENTERTAINS 214 

XVIII    THE   INSPIBATION 219 

XIX    THE   ABTIST 224 

XX    THE  OUTCOME   OF  A   FESTA 231 

XXI    THE   DIAMOND-MAKER 243 

XXII  MB.  PHILIP  AINSWOBTH,  DETECTIVE  ....  256 

XXIII  SHADOWS 277 

XXIV  THE    PICTURE 281 

XXV    BEATBICE 288 

XXVI    NOTES 296 

XXVII    THE  SECBET  PASSAGE   .     .     „ 305 

XXVIH    IN  NICCOLO'S  HUT 321 

XXIX    Two  VISITORS 326 

XXX  COUNT  TEODOBO'S   FINAL  RECKONING     .     .     .  337 

XXXI    THE  VIOLIN 347 

XXXII  THE  LUBE  OF  THE  LAKE   .                                .  369 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


There  was  a  wistful  caress  in  the  very  touch  of  the 

lad's  lean,  brown  ringers        ....         Frontispiece 


FACING  PAGE 


"It  is  a  matter  of  great  mystery  to  me  that  the 
American  Signori  should  have  chosen  our  obscure 
little  valley  in  which  to  rusticate. "  -  -  140 

"There  is  no  music  like  the  strains  one  can  bring  from 

a  violin  of  the  old  master's  making."      ...  176 

Back  in  Cremona  Camillo  Lamberti  sat  every  day  in 
the  master's  workshop  watching  the  progress  of 
his  violin.  ......  --  186 


TRAUMEREI 


TRAUMEREI 


CHAPTER    I 
A  PURCHASE 

«  A  N  Italian?" 

•**•  Kirke  Bentley  emerged  from  the  ham- 
mock beneath  the  elms  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  the  precise  valet  before  him.  "What  does 
he  want?  " 

"  'E  says,  sir  — "  the  Englishman  coughed  re- 
spectfully — "  'e  says  as  'ow  'e  'as  an  old  fiddle 
'e  wants  you  to  look  over." 

"  An  old  fiddle !  "  repeated  Mr.  Bentley,  a  sud- 
den flash  of  interest  obscuring  the  chronic  dis- 
content of  his  lazy  eyes,  "that  sounds  interest- 
ing. Send  him  out  here,  Gribbins." 

Gribbins'  mouse-coloured  eyes  reflected  a  faint 
disgust,  but  he  looked  at  the  broad-shouldered 
young  gentleman  in  the  hammock  a  trifle  un- 
certainly before  he  ventured  a  timid  remon- 
strance. 

"  I  begs  your  pawdon,  sir,"  he  urged  primly, 
"  but  Vs  dirty,  'e's  ragged,  and,  sir,  Vs  exactly 
like  an  Anarchist  or  a  Black  'And  'eathen.  I 
told  'im  to  go  about  'is  business,  but  'e  jabbered 
away  so  sassy  in  'is  'eathenish  language  and 
looked  so  —  so  ferocious,  sir  —  that  I  thought 


2  TRAUMEBEI 

'e  'ad  some  intentions  of  doin'  me  'arm.  Beg- 
gin'  your  pawdon  again,  sir,  I  wouldn't  trust 
'im !  You  cawn't  tell  — " 

"  Nonsense !  "  exclaimed  Kirke  impatiently. 
"  Send  him  out  here !  "  and  the  valet,  relapsing 
into  his  habitual  melancholy,  moved  slowly  away 
across  the  lawn.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Mr. 
Bentley's  love  of  music  had  attracted  vagrant 
musicians  whose  general  appearance  had  filled 
the  Englishman's  sensitive  soul  with  horror, 
nor,  doubtless,  would  it  be  the  last. 

"  My  word ! "  mused  the  scandalised  valet, 
mildly  anathematising  the  young  gentleman's 
democratic  ideas.  "  'E  seems  right  smart,  but 
there  is  times  when  I'm  sure  'e's  orf  'is  crumpet 
— 'andsome  lad  that  'e  is  —  and  this  is  another 
of  'em.  John  'Apworth  'imself  would  'ave  a  'eap 
of  trouble  understandin'  'is  queer  ideas ! " 

The  Italian  was  indeed  ragged  and  dirty 
enough  to  justify  the  Englishman's  description. 
There  was  a  supple  grace  of  movement  about 
him,  however,  that  instantly  commended  itself 
to  Kirke's/keen  love  of  the  artistic. !  He  was  lit- 
tle more  than  a  boy  —  twenty-two  perhaps  — 
certainly  no  more  —  with  a  lean,  swarthy  face 
crowned  in  an  unkempt  mass  of  black  hair.  His 
sombre  eyes  seemed  unnaturally  large,  but  their 
dark  velvet  was  soft  and  melancholy.  A  red 
handkerchief,  knotted  carelessly  at  the  throat, 
brought  out  the  rich  bronze  of  his  skin  and  lent 


A    PUR  CHASE  3 

the  vivid  touch  of  colour  that  the  true  Italian 
loves. 

"II  Signore  like  da  musik?"  he  questioned 
eagerly  as  he  paused  beside  the  hammock. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  want  to  sell  your  violin?  Let 
me  see  it." 

Kirke  examined  the  violin  with  a  critical  eye. 
The  colour  of  its  wood  was  unusual;  a  soft, 
tawny  red  with  a  glint  of  gold  in  it.  He  shifted 
the  instrument  to  get  a  better  effect  of  its  lines 
of  modelling,  and  as  the  light  changed  there  was 
more  gold  than  red,  a  deep  golden-bronze  that 
swiftly  crimsoned  again  at  a  turn  of  the  wrist. 
Its  beauty  of  line  and  colour  made  a  strong  ap- 
peal, and  the  Italian,  watching  him  intently, 
caught  the  eager  interest  in  his  face. 

"  II  Signore  like  da  instrument?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes !    Good  lines  and  a  fine  colour." 

"  Ah,  but  da  tone ! "  crooned  the  Italian 
proudly.  "  Listen,  Signore !  " 

Was  it  the  violin  or  the  player?  The  Amer- 
ican could  not  decide.  Certainly  there  was  witch- 
ery in  the  melody  that  floated  away  on  the  warm, 
summer  air  from  beneath  the  Italian's  bow. 
It  fanned  the  American's  imagination,  •  keenly 
alive*  to  the  stimulus  of  music,!  and  called  up 
memories  of  the  distant  South  —  the  languor- 
ous, melting  Italian  South  cradled  in  the  azure 
bosom  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  wild  minor 
melody  came  indeed*  like  a  fragrant  breath  from 


4  TRAUMEREI 

the  player's  own  mountains  of  sunny  Italy, 
whispering  of  iris-shadowed  ridges,  of  the  purl- 
ing silver  foam  of  mountain  cascades,  of  golden 
sunsets  wrought  in  Nature's  crucible,  of  orange 
and  lemon  and  bergamot  whose  haunting  per- 
fume is  indissolubly  linked  with  memories  of  the 
South. 

There  was  a  wistful  caress  in  the  very  touch 
of  the  lad's  lean,  brown  fingers,  and  the  tones 
that  showered  from  beneath  his  bow  were  so  full 
and  rich,  of  such  incomparable  sweetness  and 
purity,  that  Kirke  half  fancied  the  instrument 
a  sentient  thing,  alive  to  the  sympathetic  emo- 
tion of  the  player  and  eagerly  responsive  to  it. 
Gently  the  Italian  drew  the  bow  across  the 
strings  in  a  final  diminuendo,  and  as  the  low 
wail  of  the  violin  ceased,  his  mouth  quivered 
strangely  and  he  turned  away. 

"  Play  again !  "  The  American's  tones  were 
oddly  curt.  He  was  a  little  ashamed  of  the  pas- 
sionate agitation  that  had  surged  through  him 
at  the  call  of  a  peasant  hand. 

The  Italian  nodded.  Reverently  he  drew  the 
bow  across  the  strings  in  a  lingering  legato,  and 
a  plaintive  tone  quivered,  rose  and  fell,  thrill- 
Ing  Kirke  Bentley's  soul  with  wonder.  It  grew 
and  grew,  a  thing  of  mystery,  full  of  passionate 
rebellion,  grew  into  a  contralto  melody  of  power- 
ful timbre  and  died  away  to  a  whisper.  A 
tear  coursed  slowly  down  the  player's  swarthy 


A     PURCHASE  5 

cheek  and  in  sudden  shame  he  averted  his  head. 

"  I  mucha  honxe-seeck,  Signore !  "  he  choked 
miserably. 

"  Let  me  have  the  violin,"  said  Kirke,  touched 
by  the  lad's  simple  explanation;  and  tenderly 
drawing  the  bow  across  the  strings,  he  too 
played  a  favourite  melody.  The  magic  was  not 
alone  in  the  Italian's  fingers;  the  tone  still 
thrilled  with  its  power  and  sweetness. 

"  The  Signore  can  play !  "  The  Italian  with 
the  ready  buoyancy  of  the  Southerner  had  com- 
posed himself  and  was  nodding  approvingly. 

"So  you  want  to  sell  your  violin?"  Kirke, 
secretly  fearful  of  the  other's  retraction,  looked 
inquiringly  at  the  Italian. 

"  Si,  Signore." 

"Why?" 

"Go  back  to  Italy,  Signore!  Lova  da  leetle 
lady,  Lauretta ! " 

"What  price  will  you  take  for  it?" 

"  Two  hundred  dolla." 

Kirke  whistled,  noting  the  other's  hesitant 
manner.  "  That's  a  stiff  price  for  an  ordinary 
violin !  "  he  suggested. 

"  'Tis  no  ordinare  violin ! "  denied  the  Italian 
proudly.  "  My  familee  owna  da  violin  dis  mana 
hundred  year ! " 

This  latter  statement  the  American  frankly 
doubted.  The  violin,  however,  had  pleased  his 
fancy  and  he  was  in  no  mood  for  a  bickering 


6  TRAUMEREI 

discussion  of  its  value.  '  Decisions  with  him 
were  always  rapid. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  I'll  take  it. 
You're  quite  sure,"  he  added  carelessly,  "that 
you  didn't  steal  it?  " 

"  Si,  Signore."  The  tone  was  very  humble, 
the  eyes  downcast ;  but  as  Kirke  turned  away  sat- 
isfied, a  little  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  the  ques- 
tion in  his  instant  recollection  of  the  honesty 
he  had  read  in  the  lad's  face,  the  Italian  col- 
oured hotly  and  looked  away. 

"Very  well.  Come  up  to  the  house  and  I'll 
pay  you."  Kirke  spoke  in  Italian  —  the  lan- 
guage was  a  favourite  one  —  smiling  at  the 
other's  start  of  astonishment  and  the  eager  vol- 
ubility of  his  quick  response.  There  was  a  child- 
ish delight  in  his  manner  as  he  eloquently  re- 
peated his  assurance  of  the  violin's  merit,  so 
rapidly  indeed  that  the  American  threw  up  his 
hands  in  laughing  protest. 

Gribbins  saw  the  gesture  from  an  upstairs 
window  and,  construing  his  master's  conduct  as 
the  conventional  response  to  a  hold-up,  was  plan- 
ning with  great  deliberation  to  remove  an  an- 
tique weapon  from  the  wall  of  the  den  in  which 
he  stood  and  organise  himself  into  a  band  of 
rescue  when  it  was  borne  in  upon  his  slow  wits 
that  the  two  were  approaching  the  house  in 
friendly  converse.  But  slightly  reassured,  he 
descended  the  stairs  in  considerable  trepidation, 


A    PUR  CHASE  7 

pausing  on  the  landing  a  disgusted  witness  to 
the  transmission  of  a  large  roll  of  bills  to  the 
hand  of  the  vagrant  musician  who  departed 
with  a  simple  "  Mille  grazie,  Eccellenza. 
Addio!" 

"Addio!" 

Kirke  watched  the  Italian  depart,  mentally 
approving  the  lithe  grace  of  his  slender  body. 
He  turned  to  find  Gribbins  behind  him,  still  eye- 
ing the  retreating  figure  with  gloomy  suspicion. 

"  Gribbins,"  he  said,  with  difficulty  suppress- 
ing a  smile,  "  do  you  know  where  the  case  of 
my  old  violin  is?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  valet,  "  it's  right  'ere, 
sir,  in  the  music  room." 

"  Very  well.  You  will  please  put  this  violin 
that  I've  just  bought  in  it.  It's  going  abroad 
with  us." 

"Very  good,  sir."  The  Englishman  took  the 
violin  gingerly.  To  him  it  had  become  imbued 
with  the  doubtful  personality  of  its  former 
owner  and  was  accordingly  an  object  of  sus- 
picion. 

"  And  Gribbins,  it's  not  to  go  with  the  other 
luggage,  you  understand.  You're  to  carry  it ! " 

Gribbins'  face  lengthened  perceptibly  and  his 
mouse-coloured  eyes  grew,  if  possible,  more 
sadly  resigned  than  usual.  However  the  young 
master's  slightest  whim  must  be  obeyed. 

"  Very  good,  sir !  "  was  all  he  said  —  aloud. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  DISCOVERY 

whole  truth  of  the  matter,"  mused 
Mr.  Bentley  gloomily,  staring  out  from 
his  hotel  window  over  the  hills  of  Genoa  and 
moodily  apostrophising  himself,  "is,  Kirke 
Bentley,  that  you're  most  infernally  lazy !  It's 
a  painful  truth  and  you're  very  sorry,  but  you 
don't  want  to  go  on  to  Switzerland  to-morrow, 
and  if  you  hadn't  such  an  ambitious  mother  and 
sister,  you  most  certainly  wouldn't!" 

The  young  gentleman's  eyes  roved  restlessly 
over  the  Italian  landscape  outside  his  window, 
indifferently  defining  its  charm.  After  all,  he 
told  himself  discontentedly, •  the  climbing  pal- 
aces on  the  heights,  the  steep  streets  that  wound 
their  serpentine  way  upward,  even  the  amphi- 
theatre of  hills  bathed  in  the  golden  haze  of  the 
early  summer '.did  but  point  the  fact  that  he  must 
leave  it  all  on  the  morrow  to  join  his  mother  and 
sister  at  Murren. 

Presently,  however,  the  restless  beauty  of  the 
scene  caught  him  strongly.  In  certain  moods 
he  was  keenly?  alive  to  the  appeal  of  colour  and 
to-day  the  slopes  of  La  Superba  wooed  the  idler 

8 


ADISCOVERY  9 

with  a  bewildering  maze  of  tints,  »  Blue,  tipped 
with  a  delicate  rose  or  a  splash  of  violet,  lay 
over  the  hills,  and  the  landscape  was  gloriously 
mottled  with  dancing  sun-gold.  \  Lazily  appre- 
ciative, he  fancied  the  scene  before  him  impris- 
oned upon  canvas  and,  frowning  suddenly, 
turned  away  to  shut  out  the  reproof  subtly 
etched  upon  the  ridges.  Unconsciously  he 
shrugged  away  the  thought  of  an  indolence  that 
had  been  an  insidious  dormitive  to  a  genuine 
talent,  a  talent  cultivated  by  two  years  of  work 
with  the  great  Salvatore  and  since  wantonly 
neglected,  and  in  abrupt  self-defence,  fell  to 
thinking  of  the  summer  ahead  of  him. 

Of  the  cup  of  travel  this  discontented  young 
gentleman  had  drunk  full  and  deep,  finding  in 
the  dregs  of  satiety  the  inevitable  bitterness. 
There  had  been  a  time,  however,!  when  the  fire 
of  an  autumn  sunset  flaming  through  the 
branches  of  a  leafless  tree,  limned  stark  and 
dead  against  a  windy  sky,  or  the  purple  mist  of 
a  distant  mountain  had  sent  the  blood  racing 
through  his  veins  in  a  fever  of  exaltation,  an 
artist's  passionate  worship  of  the  great  canvas 
of  Nature  J  Later,  however,  as  the  discontent 
bred  of  idleness  appeared  in  his  eyes  and  dulled 
his  finer  perceptions,  Nature  had  seemed  jeal- 
ously to  veil  her  deeper  beauties,  hoarding  them 
for  the  inspired  eyes  of  the  Chosen.  Occasion- 
ally, in  fitful  enthusiasm,  he  could  still  pierce 


10  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

the  veil  and  feel  for  an  instant  the  flood  of  in- 
spiration, but  for  the  most  part  he  viewed  the 
world  with  the  indifferent  eyes  of  the  hardened 
globe-trotter. 

"  Heigho !  "  he  yawned  presently,  "  who  was 
it  'called  for  his  pipe  and  called  for  his  bowl 
and  called  for  his  fiddlers  three?'  Gribbins, 
the  violin,  if  you  please." 

The  valet  brought  the  instrument  gingerly  - 
it  had  not  yet  acquired  caste  in  his  eyes  —  and 
returned  to  the  adjoining  room. 

"  Mr.  Bentley  is  plumb  daffy  over  that  fid- 
dle ! "  he  ruminated  disconsolately.  "  'E's 
fussed  with  it  the  'ole  voyage  over  and  I  for 
one  cawn't  see  what  there  is  about  it  to  so  take 
'is  fawncy.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  'e 
caught  some  'orrible  disease  through  it.  I've 
seen  'im  put  'is  chin  on  the  very  place  that  Black 
'And  'eathen  'ad  'is  chin,  and  'e  not  knowin' 
at  all  that  I  rubbed  it  all  over  with  a  disin- 
fectant. Like  as  not  'e  doesn't  care!  'E  made 
such  a  bloomin'  row  about  its  smellin'  queer 
the  day  I  did  it  that  I  'adn't  the  courage  to  tell 
'im!"  and  Gribbins  shook  his  head  ominously 
as  a  flood  of  melody,  powerfully  sweet  and  beau- 
tiful, poured  from  the  strings  of  the  disinfected 
violin. 

The  violin,  whatever  its  collection  of  bac- 
teria, had  indeed  strongly  caught  the  fancy  of 
its  new  owner.  The  emotion  of  the  ragged, 


A    DISCOVERY  11 

dark-skinned  musician  as  he  had  stood  beneath 
the  giant  elm,  evoking  a  silver  shower  of  melody 
from  his  violin,  and  later  plaintively  pleading 
"  home-seeckness  and  love  for  da  leetle  lady 
Lauretta,"  had  imbued  the  chance  purchase  with 
a  very  definite  tinge  of  romance. 

The  music  died  away.  Gribbins  tiptoed  to  the 
door  to  see  if  his  master  wished  to  dress,  but 
Kirke  sat  perfectly  quiet,  the  violin  in  his  hand, 
gazing  absently  at  \  the  circle  of  hills  which, 
green  and  tranquil  above  the  climbing  line  of 
stuccoed  dwellings,  lay  dark  against  the  gold  of 
the  setting  sun.\  The  valet  silently  appraised 
the  dark,  clean-shaven  face,  the  lazy  eyes  and 
square,  defiant  chin  of  his  master  and  as  silently 
retreated.  He  knew  better  than  to  interrupt  this 
mood  —  he  had  tried  the  experiment. 
\  The  wind,  laden  with  delicate  perfume,  blew 
the  curtains  of  the  window  softly  back  and  forth. 
It  was  redolent  with  the  odour  of  fruit  and 
flower  from  the  mountainside.  Above  the  glory 
of  the  sunset,  the  sky  was  streaked  with  float- 
ing streamers  of  colour  —  topaz  and  sapphire  — 
some  already  deepening  into  the  wistaria  pen- 
nants of  the  coming  night.  From  the  nearest 
hillside  a  mule-bell  tinkled  audibly  in  the  quiet. 
The  rider's  scarlet  sash  flashed  like  an  intermit- 
tent flame  as  he  rode  upward  through  the  light 
and  shadow.  Kirke's  eyes  closed  drowsily.  The 
scent  of  orange  blowing  in  at  the  window  was 


12  TRAUMEREI 

quite  irresistible.'  A  second  later  when  the  con- 
scientious Gribbins  peered  cautiously  into  the 
room  again,  his  master  was  asleep,  the  violin 
still  clutched  in  his  hand. 

From  his  momentary  nap,  Kirke  was  awak- 
ened by  a  dull  clatter.  The  violin  had  slipped 
to  the  floor  and  lay  at  his  feet.  Annoyed  by  his 
own  carelessness,  he  stooped  to  regain  it,  gasp- 
ing in  dismay  as  his  eyes  encountered  a  gaping 
hole  in  its  side  through  which  the  interior  of 
the  instrument  was  plainly  visible.  At  first 
sight  the  violin  appeared  to  have  been  smashed 
by  its  tumble,  but  a  hurried  examination  re- 
vealed the  startling  fact  that  the  curved  piece 
of  wood  which  formed  the  indentation,  in  the 
centre  of  the  violin's  side  was  in  reality  a  con- 
cave panel  which,  swinging  back  upon  a  small 
interior  hinge,  had  been  released  by  the  sudden 
contact  of  its  tiny  silver  spring  with  the  floor. 
Kirke,  whistling  softly  in  astonishment,  stared 
at  the  gilded  inscription  on  the  inner  surface  of 
the  curving  wood.  Camilla  Lamberti,  1712,  it 
read,  and  below  in  brighter  gold,  Dioneo  Lam- 
berti, Beritola,  Italia.  Save  for  a  tiny  silver 
disc,  the  sole  surface  indication  of  the  hidden 
spring,  the  panel  when  snapped  back  into  place 
gave  no  hint  of  its  secret. 

"  Fits  tightly,  of  course,  so  as  not  to  interfere 
with  the  sound ! "  mused  the  astonished  owner, 
shifting  the  instrument  to  inspect  the  corre- 


A     DISCOVERY  13 

spending  section  of  wood  on  the  other  side.  In- 
stantly he  caught  the  gleam  of  another  silver 
disc,  in  every  way  similar  to  the  first,  and,  thrill- 
ing with  electric  prescience,  pressed  it  firmly 
with  his  thumb-nail.  The  second  panel  snapped 
back,  revealing  an  inscription,  which,  illumined 
vividly  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  seemed 
made  of  letters  of  golden  fire.  Kirke  drew  his 
breath  sharply  as  he  read: 

Antonius  Stradiuarius,  Cremonentis, 
Faciebat  Anno  1712. 

It  was  there  —  a  gripping  reality  in  spite  of 
the  American's  stare  of  incredulity.  The  mark 
of  the  immortal  master  of  violin  makers  fol- 
lowed the  magic  words  —  a  double  circle  and  the 
enclosed  initials,  A.  S. 

This,  then,  was  the  secret  of  the  powerful  tones 
which  had  so  stirred  him;  of  the  curious  rubes- 
cent  gold  that  one  caught  in  its  varnish  and 
speedily  lost  again  in  the  flush  of  the  deeper 
colour.  The  peculiar  blending  of  red  and  gold 
had  been  indeed  the  famous  Cremona  varnish 
whose  secret  formula  had  died  with  the  old  mas- 
ters who  knew  so  well  how  to  mellow  the  wood 
and  enrich  the  tone  by  its  application. 

Again  the  picture  of  the  young  Italian  rose 
before  him  and  the  strains  of  the  old  violin 
echoed  mournfully  in  his  ears.  How  wonder- 
fully well  the  lad  had  played!  The  reverent 


14  TRAUMEREI 

touch  of  the  lean  brown  fingers  took  on  a  new 
meaning  as  the  American  stared  at  the  golden 
inscription. 

A  Stradivarius !  Genuinely  delighted,  Kirke 
ran  his  fingers  lightly  over  a  triangular  patch 
on  the  back  where  the  varnish  had  been  rubbed 
off,  revealing  a  wood,  fine-grained  and  soft. 
Again  and  again  he  read  the  master's  name, 
blessing  the  lazy  whim  that  had  made  him  the 
owner  of  the  old  violin. 

Ah!  but  was  he?  The  inscription  on  the 
other  panel  recurred  to  him  and  he  found  it  un- 
comfortably suggestive.  Who  was  Dioneo  Lam- 
berti?  Where  was  Beritola?  What  could  ex- 
plain the  ragged  Italian's  possession  of  so  rare 
an  instrument  or  his  willing  sale  for  but  a  frac- 
tion of  its  value?  Suppose  —  the  possibility 
must  be  faced  —  suppose  the  instrument  had  been 
stolen  from  the  man  whose  name  appeared  in 
brighter  gold  beneath  that  of  his  ancestor. 
Kirke  frowned  uneasily.  There  was  an  excel- 
lent case  for  the  defence,  he  told  himself  stub- 
bornly. No  doubt  Signore  Dioneo  had  been 
dead  for  centuries!  Perhaps  the  violin  had 
come  to  him  at  Camillo  Lamberti's  death,  an 
event  which  must  have  occurred  in  the  eight- 
eenth century. 

In  spite  of  his  ready  argument,  however,  the 
absence  of  any  date  after  the  second  Lamberti's 
name  and  the  brighter  glint  of  its  golden  rec- 


A     DISCOVERY  15 

ord,  suggesting  a  later  application,  troubled  the 
American.  There  was,  of  course,  an  equal 
chance  that  the  owner  of  the  name  was  alive  to- 
day, and  as  Kirke  recalled  the  circumstances  of 
his  purchase  from  the  Italian  peasant,  the  pros- 
pect of  theft  became  ominously  plausible. 

Moreover,  the  similarity  of  the  dates  follow- 
ing the  master's  name  and  that  of  Camillo  Lam- 
berti  (1712  in  each  instance)  suggested  that  the 
latter  had  been  the  original  owner  of  the  won- 
derful instrument  which  bore  his  name.  If  his 
descendant  were  alive  to-day,  and  its  rightful 
owner,  then  the  violin  must  be  a  precious  heir- 
loom that  had  come  down  to  him  from  the  eight- 
eenth century.  Perhaps  at  this  hour  —  this 
very  instant,  indeed !  —  the  Italian  was  mourn- 
ing its  loss.  Impulsively  Kirke  despatched 
Gribbins  with  an  inquiry  concerning  the  where- 
abouts of  Beritola.  The  Englishman  presently 
returned  with  the  information  that  it  was  "  a 
walley  willage  in  the  'ills  to  the  north  of  Naples 
-  that  'e  'ad  'ad  a  'ard  time  findin'  out,  for  the 
clerk  spoke  a  language  that  'e  called  English 
but  which  was  in  'is  opinion  pure  Chinese ! " 

Kirke  stared  thoughtfully  at  the  distant  hills. 
The  warm  rose-gold  of  the  sunset  was  gone  now, 
its  aureole  of  brilliant  colour  swiftly  fading 
away.  Shorn  of  its  vivifying  glory,  the  land- 
scape looked  cold  and  barren  and  unsympathetic. 
The  American's  code  of  honour,  scrupulous  in 


16  TRAUMEREI 

many  details  that  another  would  have  peremp- 
torily discarded  as  quixotic,  demanded  a  cer- 
tain investigation.  If  Dioneo  Lamberti  still 
lived  in  Beritola  and  was  the  owner  of  this  won- 
derful instrument,  stolen  from  him  perhaps  by 
its  musical  vendor,  his  duty  was  quite  plain. 
He  must  acquaint  himself  with  the  history  of 
the  violin  and,  if  it  corroborated  his  suspicion, 
return  it,  quite  unmindful  of  the  personal  sac- 
rifice it  entailed. 

This  decision,  unpleasant  enough  at  first,  grew 
more  attractive  at  the  thought  that  it  afforded 
an  excellent  excuse  for  an  immediate  withdrawal 
from  the  fashionable  Alpine  diversions  of  his 
sister's  party.  Yes !  most  certainly  he  would  go 
to  Beritola,  find  Signore  Dioneo  if  he  existed, 
and  make  some  discreet  inquiries.  It  would  be 
highly  interesting  and  novel,  conditions  which 
this  whimsical  young  American  always  craved. 
All  his  former  reluctance  banished  in  a  wave 
of  enthusiasm,  he  seized  a  paper  and  scribbled 
rapidly: 

MBS.  HORACE  BENTLEY, 
Hotel  des  Alpes, 

Miirren,  Switzerland. 

Count  me  out  of  the  Alpine  climbing.  Am  going  to 
Beritola,  Italy.  Important.  Will  write  particulars. 

KIBKE. 

"  Gribbins,"  he  said  as  the  valet  patiently  re- 
appeared, "  send  this  telegram  at  once !  " 


CHAPTER  III 

BERITOLA 

THE  little  Neapolitan  steamer  bound  from 
Genoa  to  Naples  busily  chugged  its  way 
into  the  moonlit  Vesuvian  Bay,  a  sheet  of 
silver  which,  stretching  ahead  to  the  crescent 
shore  of  Napoli,!  rippled  and  sparkled  with  the 
mirrored  radiance  of  the  summer  night.l  Kirke 
Bentley  stood  on  the  deck,  feeling  mystically  at- 
tuned to  the  splendour  of  the  Southern  night 
with  its  changing  lights  and  shadows.  Yes, 
that  great  luminous  disc  above  was  the  same 
moon  that  had  poured  its  effulgence  down  upon 
the  world  since  the  beginning  of  time,  but  for 
Kirke,  fired  by  the  novelty  of  his  quest,  its  shim- 
mer bore  a  new  loveliness.  It  flecked  the  waves 
with  lambent  silver  and  turned  to  ghosts  the 
bare  masts  of  countless  vessels  riding  at  anchor 
in  the  bay;  it  traced  a  Titan  filigree  of  silver, 
patterned  in  fantastic  shadows,  along  the  coast 
where  it  melted  into  the  frothing  line  of  the  sea. 
The  torch  of  the  giant  sentry  Vesuvius  flamed 
suddenly  over  the  bay,  and  as  if  in  trained  re- 
sponse the  lights  of  the  city  flashed  one  by  one 
into  a  half-circle  of  living  sparks,  engirdling  the 

17 


18  TRAUMEREI 

shore  with  a  chain  of  firefly  sentinels,  bril- 
liantly armoured. 

To  the  American,  in  his  romantic  frame  of 
mind,  the  scene  was  irresistible.  The  moonlit 
bay,  the  fire-mountain  fitfully  reddening  against 
the  dusky  background  of  the  night,  the  per- 
vasive tinkle  of  mandolins  and  guitars  from  the 
smaller  boats  gliding  about  the  bay,  the  lights 
of  the  city  flashing  ahead  of  them  like  a  neck- 
lace of  fire-jewels  as  they  glided  in  a  row-boat 
from  the  steamer  to  the  shore;  nay  more,  the 
very  mission  upon  which  he  was  bound,  hunting 
the  owner  of  an  old  violin,  ingeniously  panelled, 
which  bore  inscribed  in  letters  of  gold  the  name 
of  the  immortal  master,  Antonius  Stradivarius ! 
All  seemed  but  part  of  the  gossamer  structure 
of  a  dream,  shrouded  in  an  iridescent  mist  of 
romance  and  unreality.  What  more  fitting 
complements  of  each  other,  the  American  asked 
himself,  than  his  quest  and  its  moonlit  portal? 

Kirke's  plans  were  as  yet  but  vaguely  defined. 
In  the  morning  he  sought  the  advice  of  his  hotel- 
keeper  and  was  instantly  assured  that  Eccel- 
lenza  would  certainly  find  suitable  private  ac- 
commodation in  the  village  of  Beritola.  In- 
deed, if  he  did  not,  the  gracious  host  stood  ready 
to  forfeit  his  worthless  life  upon  demand,  a 
sentiment  sensibly  affected  by  the  generosity  of 
the  American's  buono  mano. 

The  dilapidated  vehicle  recommended  by  the 


BERITOLA  19 

hotel  clerk  for  safe  portage  to  Beritola  held  forth 
an  excellent  promise  of  sudden  dissolution  as 
it  madly  rattled  up  in  the  afternoon.  Kirke 
watched  the  disposal  of  his  luggage  in  the  ram- 
shackle interior  with  considerable  foreboding. 
Fearful  lest  the  rickety  platform  should  flatly 
refuse  to  endure  its  added  burden,  he  him- 
self presently  stepped  in,  debating  with  a  grin 
whether  it  might  not  perhaps  be  the  saner 
method  to  kick  out  the  bottom  at  once  and  de- 
mand a  new  one.  His  fears  were  plainly  re- 
flected in  the  face  of  his  solemn  valet  and  Kirke 
smiled  broadly  at  the  thought  that  the  precise 
Englishman  would  be  obliged  to  ride  with  the 
driver  —  an  irresponsible  vetturino  of  most 
rakish  aspect,  who  had  gravely  introduced  him- 
self as  the  hotel  clerk's  favourite  brother.  His 
flapping  hat,  in  which  a  dissipated  feather 
bobbed  drunkenly  about,  was  tilted  gaily  over 
one  ear,  its  general  style  suggesting  nothing  so 
much  as  the  headgear  of  a  scarecrow.  A  volu- 
minous scarlet  tie,  in  which  he  displayed  a 
pardonable  pride,  was  carefully  spread  out  in  a 
huge  bow  beneath  his  chin,  above  which  grinned 
a  swarthy,  dare-devil  face,  wreathed  in  an  ir- 
resistible smile  of  the  utmost  friendliness. 

Gribbins,  however,  was  quite  immune  to  the 
picturesque  charm  of  his  companion.  The  rich, 
bronze  skin  and  even,  flashing  teeth  he  regarded 
as  proofs  of  unusual  depravity,  and  as  he  settled 


20  TRAUMEKEI 

his  thin  figure  gingerly  by  the  side  of  the  Italian, 
he  eyed  him  with  such  furtive  disapprobation 
that  Kirke  laughed  outright.  The  driver,  after 
assuring  himself  that  Eccellenza  was  quite  com- 
fortable and  that  none  of  the  component  parts 
of  the  antique  vehicle  had  as  yet  tumbled  to 
pieces,  suddenly  seized  the  reins  and  roared: 

"  Wah !    Wah !  " 

The  effect  was  electrical.  Gribbins  sprang  to 
his  feet,  convinced  that  he  was  the  object  of  a 
murderous  and  totally  unwarranted  attack, 
seated  himself  quite  as  abruptly  as  the  horses 
lurched  forward,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  journey 
maintained  a  dignity  that  was  truly  awe-in- 
spiring. 

But  the  driver  was  bent  upon  sociability.  He 
chattered  and  grinned  and  gesticulated  cordially 
to  the  unresponsive  Englishman  whose  nose  in 
its  steady  rise  threatened  to  become  part  of  his 
forehead.  The  crushing  effect  of  his  nasal  con- 
tempt, unfortunately,  was  lost  in  the  frequent 
necessity  of  dodging  the  illustrative  swoops  of 
the  other's  whip.  The  vetturino,  who  seemed  in- 
deed a  perpetual  well-spring  of  jubilation,  was 
quite  undismayed  by  his  companion's  silence. 
He  presently  launched  forth  upon  a  -funny  story 
whose  ridiculous  ending  threatened  to  overwhelm 
him  completely.  Indeed  it  affected  him  to  such 
an  extent  that  in  wild  abandon  he  gave  the  end 
of  his  scarlet  tie  an  hilarious  tug  and  was  obliged 


BEEITOLA  21 

to  halt  his  horses  to  re-tie  it.  Now  perceiving 
that  the  Englishman  ignored  the  point  even  when 
his  master  laughed,  the  driver  jocularly  dug  his 
elbow  into  the  valet's  ribs  to  sharpen  his  dull 
wits,  whereupon  Gribbins  turned  upon  him  a 
face  of  such  horror-stricken  disgust  and  appre- 
hension that  Kirke  laughed  again.  His  staid 
companion's  emotion,  however,  did  not  quench 
the  Italian.  He  made  a  comical  grimace  of  com- 
prehension at  Kirke  and  chattered  volubly  until 
the  end  of  the  journey,  frequently  returning  to 
the  subject  of  his  horses  upon  whom  he  bestowed 
an  extravagant  eulogium,  designating  them 
proudly  as  Garibaldi  and  Victor  Emmanuel,  long 
ago  accorded  the  palm  of  being  the  very 
best  equine  stock  in  all  Italy,  and  possibly  in 
all  the  world  for  aught  he  knew  to  the  con- 
trary ! 

Gradually  the  road  unwound  itself  before  them, 
a  kaleidoscopic  ribbon  of  beauty,  many-hued. 
Through  miniature  inland  towns,  which  left  a 
confused  impression  of  the  dark  eyes,  great  ear- 
rings and  brilliant  bodices  of  laughing  peasant 
women,  back  to  the  shores  of  the  Tyrrhenian 
Sea;  through  villages  of  weather-beaten  fisher- 
men it  wound,  revealing  now  the  grey  ruins  of 
a  castle  and  now  the  gold  of  an  orange  grove; 
now  skirting  the  water's  edge,  now  bounding 
along  shelves  of  rock  far  above  the  sea ;  a  merci- 
ful Providence  alone  protecting  the  occupants 


22  TRAUMEREI 

of  the  Neapolitan  rattle-trap  and  their  reckless 
driver. 

At  the  side  of  a  hill  the  driver  turned  sharply 
inland,  winding  in  and  out  through v a  maze  of 
hills  that  momentarily  grew  steeper.  \  The  Amer- 
ican decided  that  they  were  travelling  through 
a  range  of  mountains  thrown  off  from  the  main 
branch  of  the  Apennines.  This  the  driver  veri- 
fied with  a  series  of  staccato  nods  that  threat- 
ened to  sever  his  head  completely  from  the  scar- 
let tie,  exploding  immediately  after  into  the 
voluble  explanation,  accurately  illustrated  by 
the  whip,  that  the  unbroken  line  of  hills  through 
which  he  was  at  present  driving  and  whose  scenic 
vagaries  no  man  in  all  Italy  but  himself  knew 
thoroughly  owing  to  the  superior  moral,  physical 
and  mental  qualities  the  acquirement  of  such 
knowledge  required,  extended  from  the  Apen- 
nines straight  to  the  coast  of  the  Tyrrhenian 
Sea,  and  that  Beritola  lay  in  a  wonderful  little 
valley  in  the  very  heart  of  these  hills  —  perhaps 
a  mile,  certainly  no  more,  in  from  the  shore. 

And  such  a  valley !  Body  of  Bacchus !  Wait 
-wait  until  Eccellenza  should  see  it!  Fertile? 
Christoforo  Colombo!  Yes!  The  word  could 
not  begin  to  describe  it.  Peasants  who  dwelt 
there  were  very  rich;  "but,"  he  added,  with  a 
comprehensive  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  "  we 
poor  devils  who  can  not  even  raise  money  enough 
to  pay  our  taxes  think  of  Beritola  as  a  Paradise 


BE  El  TO  LA  23 

where  the  poor  man  can  not  only  pay  his  taxes, 
but  live  well  to  boot!"  This  was  apparently 
such  a  fabulous  state  of  well-being  in  the  driver's 
estimation  that  the  contemplation  of  it  rendered 
him  speechless  for  a  second,  but  he  broke  forth 
with  redoubled  energy  at  a  question  from  Kirke. 

Taxes?  Presence  of  the  Devil!  Never  were 
there  such  taxes  short  of  the  Nether  Kegions 
where  His  Iniquitous  Highness  himself  levied 
them!  Taxes  on  all  fruit  and  flesh  sold  pub- 
licly ;  taxes  on  all  signboards  bearing  the  eupho- 
nious names  of  perfectly  respectable  merchants; 
taxes  on  every  box  of  matches  that  one's  decrepit 
grandmother  sells  for  such  a  small  sum  that  Ec- 
cellenza  would  willingly  feed  such  insignificant 
coins  to  the  wild  pheasants  who  were  yonder 
strutting  through  the  thicket. 

Per  Baccho!  A  tax  on  the  glorious  grapes 
even  while  they  were  growing  on  the  equally  glo- 
rious vines,  the  unfortunate  owner  becoming  a 
double  loser  if  the  crop  spoiled  after  the  tax  was 
paid.  Why!  Shades  of  Garibaldi  (and  a  good 
man  he  was  too!)  if  the  eloquent  opposition  to 
Italian  taxes  desired  to  take  that  empty  bottle 
in  the  road  back  to  Napoli  —  he  indicated  it  with 
a  swoop  of  his  whip  that  grazed  Gribbins'  ear 
and  made  him  jump  —  he  would  be  obliged  to 
pay  a  tax  upon  it!  No  doubt,  although  Eccel- 
lenza  could  see  truth  emanating  from  every  line 
of  his  countenance,  and  in  Napoli  he  was  called 


24  TRAUMEREI 

"  Truthful  Tony,"  (the  owner  did  not  feel  called 
upon  to  explain  that  it  was  usually  uttered  in 
tones  of  admiring  sarcasm),  no  doubt  he  would 
find  those  statements  hard  to  believe,  and  if  the 
driver  had  not  extraordinary  faith  in  his  own 
unimpeachable  integrity,  he  himself  would  have 
similar  difficulty. 

Kirke  tried  to  check  his  diatribe  with  a  ques- 
tion about  Beritola,  but  finding  to  his  dismay 
that  it  merely  served  to  divert  its  course  into 
another  channel,  he  sank  back  again  in  his  seat 
and  shrugged  in  amused  resignation. 

Beritola?  Blessed  Mother!  Why,  the  grand- 
fathers and  great-grandfathers  of  these  blessed 
Beritolians  had  lived  in  the  very  same  houses 
that  now  sheltered  their  lucky  descendants.  In- 
deed 'twas  even  said,  "  Once  a  Beritolian,  always 
a  Beritolian."  The  driver  himself  would  ask 
nothing  better  some  day,  when  he  had  married 
his  sweetheart,  Peronella,  than  to  have  a  little 
house  in  Beritola,  but  that  of  course  was  impos- 
sible—  quite  impossible  —  owing  to  a  certain 
conspiracy  among  the  Government  heads  whose 
chief  object  was  to  see  that  he  made  no  money, 
unless  he  acquired  it  surreptitiously  from  the 
generosity  of  foreigners. 

Kirke  smiled  at  the  utter  ingenuousness  of  the 
veiled  suggestion,  and  the  driver,  whose  success 
Italian  diplomats  were  striving  to  impede,  feeling 
that  he  had  delicately  intimated  his  readiness  to 


BERITOLA  25 

accept  an  enormous  buono  mano,  grinned  with 
brazen  good-fellowship  at  Gribbins,  flourished 
his  whip  in  an  excess  of  impudent  good  nature, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  the  road  which  had 
grown  too  steep  and  rough  for  indifferent 
driving. 

Up  the  steep  slope  of  a  mountain  they  toiled, 
threading  a  precarious  course  between  jutting 
crags  covered  with  cactus  and  brier  —  the  ve- 
hicle clattering  over  the  rocky  ground  in  mo- 
mentary danger  of  collapse  —  up  to  a  summit 
crowned  with  evergreen  oaks  and  carpeted  in  a 
velvet  of  emerald  moss  and  wild-flowers.  The 
driver  stopped  and  pointed  far  below  with  the 
inevitable  whip. 

"See,  Eccellenza!"  he  said  proudly.  "The 
valley  of  Beritola !  " 

\At  their  feet  lay  a  tiny  valley  guarded  by  a 
circle  of  hills  which  rose  one  above  the  other  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  The  distant  peaks 
were  capped  in  cloud  —  Nature's  tossing  helmet 
plumes  lent  to  deck  the  vanguard  of  the  march- 
ing mountain  files  on  their  way  to  join  the 
mighty  army  of  the  Apennines.  The  valley  lay 
sleeping  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun- 
light, a  vale  of  oranges  and  roses,  it  seemed  to 
Kirke,  into  whose  fertile  depths  summer,  flitting 
lightly  across  the  rampart  of  hills,  had  rained 
down  showers  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  tropical 
benediction  upon  her  chosen  favourite. )  Near  by 


26  T  ft  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

on  a  wooded  ridge  the  towers  of  an  old  stone 
castle,  heavily  buttressed,  loomed  grey  against 
the  line  of  sky  and  forest  behind  them.  A 
watch-dog,  ancient  and  grim  it  seemed,  guarding 
the  valley  at  its  feet. 

Below  lay  a  myriad  of  tiny  gabled  houses  scat- 
tered about  among  the  trees  with  no  thought  of 
symmetry.  Their  tiled  roofs  gleamed  brightly 
in  the  sunlight,  dotting  the  valley  with  blinding 
flashes  of  diamond  fire.  Rose  and  jasmine 
climbed  about  the  porches;  fields  of  grain  flashed 
gold  in  the  sunlight ;  groves  of  orange  and  lemon, 
heavy  with  fruit,  and  olive  trees  of  unusual  size 
and  peculiar  silvery  green  filled  the  intervening 
fields  and  occasionally  hid  the  slope  of  a  near-by 
hill.  Peasant  women  moving  about  among  the 
trees  dotted  the  landscape  with  spots  of  crimson 
and  yellow  —  a  warm  riot  of  colour  typically 
Italian! 

Truthful  Tony's  whip  described  curves  and 
squares  and  angles  to  Gribbins'  obvious  discom- 
fort as  his  enthusiasm,  waxed  stronger.  Did 
Eccellenza  see  the  lake  and  the  tiny  chapel? 
Holy  Mother!  Was  it  not  small  enough  for  a 
dolls'  mass?  And  yet  —  the  driver  shook  with 
laughter  —  they  called  it  the  Duomo  after  the 
famous  Florentine  Duomo  designed  by  the  illus- 
trious Brunelleschi!  Perhaps,  if  Eccellenza 
looked  very  sharply,  he  could  see  the  inverted 
egg-shell  upon  the  roof  of  the  chapel  from  which 


BERITOLA  27 

it  had  acquired  its  high-sounding  title.  Mother 
of  God !  These  Beritolians !  They  had  a  world 
of  their  own  down  there.  The  driver  wiped  his 
eyes  and  by  degrees  controlled  his  mirth,  al- 
although  he  rumbled  intermittently  for  some 
time.  The  American  smilingly  admitted  that  the 
picturesque  Duomo  and  its  slender  Campanile 
adjoining  were  indeed  Lilliputian  suggestions  of 
Brunelleschi's  Florentine  Duomo  and  the  famous 
bell  tower  of  Giotto ! 

" Eccellenza  is  pleased?"  Tony's  handsome 
face  was  radiant  with  enthusiasm. 

«8i!» 

For  the  instant  Kirke  could  find  no  words 
adequate  to  express  his  admiration  of  the  bit  of 
pastoral  loveliness  at  his  feet.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  the  castle  and  a  pretentious  villa  to  the 
left,  evidently  the  country  home  of  some  Nea- 
politan aristocrat,  there  was  no  evidence  of  any 
life  in  the  valley  save  that  of  the  prosperous 
peasant.  The  soul  of  the  artist  was  revelling 
in  jthe  rich  colour,  the  light  and  shade,  the  dim 
perspective,  and  the  vanishing  point  of  sky  and 
cloud  and  misty  mountain.  I. 

"  It's  wonderful !  "  he  added  later,  "  wonder- 
ful, wonderful !  " 

The  driver  flashed  his  even  white  teeth  in  a 
grin  of  delight  and  looked  suggestively  at  Grib- 
bins,  who  was  staring  straight  down  the  steep 
mountain  road  ahead  of  him,  speculating  in 


28  TRAUMEREI 

melancholy  apprehension  upon  the  approaching 
dissolution  of  the  cart.  Tony  instantly  evinced 
symptoms  of  a  desire  to  stimulate  his  compan- 
ion's appreciation  with  the  butt  end  of  his 
whip  —  indeed  it  was  headed  for  its  goal  when 
Kirke  intervened  with  a  hasty  question  —  and 
starting  violently,  Gribbins  stared  in  alarm 
at  the  madcap  Italian.  Finding  Tony's  bold, 
dark  eyes  fixed  impudently  upon  his  face, 
however,  he  coughed  behind  his  hand  in  consid- 
erable embarrassment.  Reassured  an  instant 
later  by  a  wild  explosion  of  mirth  from  the  Nea- 
politan who  appeared  to  have  been  suddenly  and 
completely  overwhelmed  by  the  Englishman's 
appearance,  he  offered  uncertainly: 

"  Mr.  Bentley,  'e  is  a  queer  one  and  the  cart 
is  a  'eap  worse!  My  word,  sir,  but  it  is  an 
'eathenish  outfit." 

"  Wah !  Wah !  "  roared  Tony  maliciously,  grin- 
ning like  a  fiend  in  the  delight  of  starting  up 
Garibaldi  and  Victor  Emmanuel  with  the  call 
that  'iad  once  before  startled  his  solemn  com- 
panion, and  swaying  back  and  forth  in  his  seat 
in  another  uncontrollable  outburst  of  laughter 
as  the  Englishman  jumped.  Down  the  hill  they 
bounced  and  clattered,  and  as  the  driver's  mirth 
subsided,  he  informed  Kirke  that  the  road  they 
were  travelling  was  the  sole  entrance  to  the  lit- 
tle valley  of  Beritola, 

A  crowd  of  youngsters  with  tousled  curls  and 


BERITOLA  29 

great,  soft,  dark  eyes  ran  out  to  greet  the  vis- 
itors with  screams  of  delight.  The  arrival  of  a 
stranger  in  Beritola  was  epoch-making,  and  it 
would  be  no  fault  of  theirs  if  he  were  not  prop- 
erly received.  The  village  women,  too,  emerged 
from  their  houses,  calling  out  eager  questions  to 
the  driver,  who,  recognising  a  national  trait  in 
their  artless  curiosity,  never  suppressed  by  any 
false  consideration  for  its  object,  patriotically 
called  back  all  known  details  and  a  few  others 
relative  to  Eccellenza's  startling  wealth  and 
lineage. 

Kirke  had  long  ago  succumbed  to  the  irresist- 
ible personality  of  the  rakish  Italian.  Now  he 
grinned  in  delight  at  the  driver's  brazen,  good- 
natured  discussion  of  his  fare,  secretly  aston- 
ished at  the  details  which  Truthful  Tony,  sub- 
limely indifferent  to  the  adjective  prefixed  to  his 
name,  imparted  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  satis- 
faction and  a  firm  belief  in  their  accuracy.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  the  Neapolitan  exponent 
of  the  truth  was  thoroughly  enjoying  himself, 
and  Kirke  sank  limply  back  in  his  seat,  laugh- 
ing in  secret  enjoyment.  The  inquisitive  prog- 
eny of  the  valley,  deeply  sensitive  of  the  unusual 
honour  conferred  upon  them  by  this  visit,  speed- 
ily organised  themselves  into  a  reception  commit- 
tee delegated  to  escort  Eccellenza  wherever  he 
wras  going.  To  Gribbins'  horror,  they  followed 
the  cart  up  the  valley,  a  constantly  growing  cav- 


30  TRAUMEREI 

alcade,  good-natured  and  admiring,  dodging  the 
mockingly  threatening  swoops  of  Tony's  whip 
and  making  frank  overtures  of  friendship  to  the 
strangers. 

"  I  know  Manuel  Ciapelletto,  Signore,"  volun- 
teered Tony,  turning  to  Kirke.  "  He  once  took 
a  great  English  author  to  live  with  him  during 
the  summer,  a  person  of  most  unchristian  stingi- 
ness. Perhaps  I  may  drive  Eccellenza  there? 
'Twas  I  —  alas !  —  who  brought  the  author." 

Assured  of  Eccellenza's  ready  assent,  the  volu- 
ble Italian  once  more  broke  forth  into  an  ad- 
miring rhapsody,  proudly  indicating  the  pictur- 
esque hedges  of  aloes  and  pomegranates  that  en- 
closed the  gardens,  the  miniature  vineyards  and 
the  tethered  goats  as  if  they  in  a  measure 
reflected  infinite  personal  credit  upon  him- 
self. 

"  They  are  very  independent,  Eccellenza,  these 
Beritola  men  and  women ! "  he  observed  in  con- 
clusion. "  They  make  their  own  wines,  they 
have  their  own  goats  that  give  the  milk,  they 
grow  the  vegetables  and  the  fruits  and  " —  he 
chuckled  and  winked  prodigiously  — "  they  pay 
the  very  big  tax  to  the  Government  for  their 
blessings,  but  Holy  Mother!  they  can  afford 
it!" 

With  a  final  brandish  of  his  whip  that  was 
greeted  with  whoops  of  delight  from  the  juvenile 
reception  committee,  Tony  pulled  up  before  a 


BERITOLA  31 

tiny  house  whose  I  porch  was  over-run  with  a 
shower  of  crimson  roses,  >  He  alighted  in  the 
midst  of  the  gaping  youngsters  with  a  spring, 
and  roared,  "  Manuel !  Manuel ! "  in  a  voice 
calculated  to  summon  the  master  of  the  house 
from  any  distance.  Its  force  was  only  equalled 
by  its  mysterious  suggestion  that  Manuel's  des- 
tiny had  in  some  way  been  altered  by  his  benev- 
olent intervention.  A  tall,  well  set  up  Italian, 
whose  loose  peasant  blouse  and  jacket  revealed 
a  bronzed  throat  and  broad  muscular  frame, 
emerged  from  the  cottage  and  returned  the 
driver's  greeting  with  a  good-natured  nod.  Tony 
straightway  burst  into  a  frantic  babble  of  ex- 
planation at  which  Manuel,  with  a  quick  glance 
at  the  American  to  see  if  he  resented  the  driv- 
er's volubility,  laughed  aloud.  Kirke  caught  his 
eye  and  smilingly  shook  his  head. 

"You  can't  stop  him!"  he  said  in  Italian. 
"I've  tried!" 

Tony  slapped  his  knee  in  the  delight  of  the 
discovery  that  the  American  Signore  had  so 
quickly  come  to  understand  his  little  idiosyn- 
crasies. 

"  Holy  Mother !  "  exclaimed  Manuel,  coming 
nearer.  "  'Tis  only  too  true,  Eccellenza;  Tony  is 
the  prize  liar  of  Napoli.  He  only  goes  to  con- 
fession when  he  breaks  his  record  and  tells  the 
truth ! "  By  the  friendly  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
as  he  spoke  the  American  guessed  that  the  irre- 


32  TRAUMEREI 

sponsible  owner  of  the  rickety  cart  was  a  fa- 
vourite. 

Tony  tried  to  look  reproachful,  failed  dis- 
mally, and  joined  in  the  laugh  at  his  expense 
with  a  roar  of  delight.  He  seemed  immensely 
proud  of  his  reputation. 

"  Eccellenza  wishes  to  see  the  English  au- 
thor's rooms,"  nodded  Manuel,  perceiving  that 
Tony  appeared  to  be  on  the  border  of  another  ex- 
cited explanation  — "  Lauretta,  Lauretta !  " 

There  was  a  movement  at  the  latticed  front 
window  as  if  the  owner  of  the  name  had  been 
peeping,  then  a  slender  girl,  clad  in  a  short  red 
skirt  and  bodice  with  a  blue  apron  trimly  tied 
at  her  waist,  stepped  from  the  house,  shyly  fin- 
gering a  rosary.  Tony  greeted  her  with  a  low 
flourishing  bow,  swooped  his  hat  through  the 
dust  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  obeisance,  and 
gravely  brushed  the  ragged  feather  immediately 
afterward  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  concern. 

The  American,  however,  startled  by  the  ex- 
traordinary picture  before  him,  stared  at  her  in 
undisguised  astonishment.  The  beauty  of  the 
peasant  girl  was  as  rare  as  it  was  wonderful. 
Moreover,  she  was  a  type  quite  her  own,  in  no 
way  resembling  the  type  of  fair-haired  women 
commonly  seen  in  Southern  Italy.  Her  waving 
hair  was  half  gold,  half  red ;  the  blending  of  the 
two  perhaps  into  an  exquisite  ruddy  gold.  Her 
eyes?  Kirke  frowned  in  the  quick  effort  to 


BERITOLA  33 

analyse  their  colour.  No!  of  course  they  could 
not  possibly  be  red  —  who  ever  heard  of  red 
eyes?  —  but  certainly  there  was  a  hint  of  its 
rich  glory  in  their  tantalising  depths.  At  least 
they  were  a  rare  blending  of  red  and  brown  and 
gold  changing  with  her  moods.  They  were  long 
and  oval  and  Oriental-looking,  the  silken  lids 
delicately  veined  and  fringed  with  lashes  of 
black,  the  arched  brows  above  them  traced  in  jet 
against  the  clear,  colourless  olive  of  her  skin. 

"  Lauretta,"  said  Manuel  Ciapelletto,  "  show 
the  American  S  ignore  the  two  upstairs  rooms 
that  the  great  author  used."  He  turned  to  Kirke 
in  quick  apology.  "  We  have  no  inn,  Eccellenza. 
Few  visitors  find  their  way  to  Beritola." 

Kirke  was  grateful  for  the  Italian's  ready  ac- 
ceptance of  his  own  arrival.  The  rampant 
curiosity  of  the  village  women  had  made  him 
somewhat  apprehensive.  Manuel  accepted  with- 
out question  the  American's  hearty  praise  of  the 
valley  and  his  intimation  that  Tony's  alleged 
brother,  the  hotel  clerk,  had  recommended  it  as 
an  ideal  spot  for  rest  and  quiet. 

"  Eccellensa  will  find  plenty  of  that ! "  he 
smiled,  and  turning,  motioned  Lauretta  to  lead 
the  way  inside. 

Kirke  followed,  quite  prepared  to  accept  what- 
ever hospitality  the  house  should  offer.  The 
valley  had  cast  a  magic  spell  over  him  and  en- 
thralled his  senses.  Fruit  and  flower  and  south- 


34  TRAUMEREI 

era  sky,  warm  and  glowing,  sent  the  blood  leap- 
ing through  his  veins  in  a  fever  of  admiration. 
He  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  cottage  and 
drew  in  deep  breaths  of  the  fragrant  air,  an  in- 
visible incense  heavy  with  perfume.  In  the  pow- 
erful music  of  the  great  organ  of  Nature  he  found 
no  dissonance  to  mar  the  harmony  of  her 
blended  beauty.  The  people  pleased  him.  Na- 
ture had  breathed  into  them  the  spirit  of  the 
valley.  They  were  all  simple  and  natural,  quick, 
hot-blooded,  impulsive  children  of  the  sun  that 
shone  so  fiercely  above  them.  Tony's  impudent 
good-nature,  Manuel's  quiet  humour,  the  artless 
curiosity  of  the  villagers  —  they  were  all  typical 
of  a  life  that  would  never  grasp  the  meaning  of 
conventional  restraint. 

Was  Dioneo  Lambert!  the  master  of  the  an- 
cient castle  yonder  guarding  the  gabled  vil- 
lage at  its  feet?  Was  he  the  rightful  owner  of 
the  priceless  violin  whose  golden  inscription  had 
led  the  American  to  this  Italian  Arcadia,  reveal- 
ing a  beauty  that  stirred  the  innermost  depths 
of  his  Nature  worship?  Verily  his  quest  and 
the  ultimate  goal  were  fittingly  complemental ! 

The  rooms  which  the  great  author  of  unchris- 
tian stinginess  had  honoured  with  his  literary 
presence  were  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing 
custom  of  the  Italians  in  summer,  uncarpeted 
and  roughly  paved  in  brick.  Their  rude  mural 
frescoes  attracted  Kirke  in  proportion  to  their 


BERITOLA  35 

contrary  effect  upon  Gribbins,  who  eyed  the  rep- 
resentation of  a  hairy,  grotesque  Bacchus  on 
the  wall  opposite  him  in  silent  horror.  The 
valet's  last  vestige  of  hope  incontinently  fled 
when  his  master  smilingly  nodded  his  approval. 
Numbed  by  the  young  gentleman's  successive  ec- 
centricities, he  haughtily  descended  the  stairs  to 
attend  to  the  luggage,  groaning  within  himself  as 
he  deposited  his  own  portmanteau  in  the  rear 
room,  not,  however,  before  he  had  carefuly  dusted 
the  floor  with  a  newspaper.  He  must  now  remain 
in  Beritola  until  Mr.  Bentley  chose  otherwise, 
for  nothing  short  of  the  personal  intervention  of 
the  devil  himself  could  compel  him  to  ride  back 
to  Naples  with  that  grinning  fiend  of  a  driver. 
The  gross  familiarity  of  Tony's  prodding  elbow 
still  rankled. 

Below  stairs  Tony  was  preparing  to  depart, 
his  heart  gladdened  by  a  buono  mano  whose  size 
would  have  made  the  inimical  court  diplomat 
shiver  enviously.  He  had  bowed  and  scraped  his 
gratitude  in  a  series  of  evolutions  so  intricate 
that  Kirke  had  doubted  his  ultimate  ability  to 
disentangle  himself.  The  aggravated  angle  of 
his  hat  attested  his  increased  well-being.  An  in- 
quiry concerning  the  mail  facilities  elicited  the 
astounding  information  that  Italy  was  vastly  su- 
perior to  all  other  countries  in  this  respect,  mak- 
ing an  especial  point  of  accelerating  all  mate- 
rial addressed  to  Americans.  True,  Eccellenza's 


36  TEAUMEEEI 

mail  would  come  no  further  than  Napoli,  but  al- 
though Tony  was  a  very  busy  man  (and  this  re- 
mark received  a  tacit  confirmation  in  its  pecul- 
iar effect  upon  Manuel  who  seemed  loath  to  let 
it  pass  without  some  endorsing  comment  of  his 
own),  Tony  himself,  for  a  slight  consideration 
which  he  would  leave  entirely  to  the  magna- 
nimity of  his  employer,  would  depart  from  his 
recent  resolution  to  be  very  careful  of  his 
strength  this  hot  summer  and  each  morning,  if 
Eccellenza  so  desired,  he  would  drive  over  and 
deliver  the  written  communications  of  Eccel- 
lenza's  admiring  friends.  Kirke  arranged  for 
a  liberal  supply  of  newspapers  and  magazines, 
of  whose  literary  merits  the  versatile  driver  pro- 
fessed an  expert  knowledge  and  rare  powers  of 
discrimination,  and  having  completed  arrange- 
ments for  outwitting  those  small-minded  states- 
men who  were  conspiring  against  Tony's  finan- 
cial welfare,  watched  the  breezy  Italian  drive 
off  with  a  deafening  clatter  of  bolts  and  boards. 
The  American  turned  to  find  Manuel  smiling 
broadly. 

"Eccellenza"  he  chuckled,  with  an  expresMve 
shrug,  "  I  once  rode  over  from  Napoli  in  Tony's 
cart.  Per  Baccho!  'Tis  a  gamble!  " 

With  a  light  laugh,  Kirke  bounded  up  the 
stairs  to  his  room,  peering  from  his  front  win- 
dow with  an  exclamation  of  delight.  1  Framed 
in  the  casement  lay  a  medieval  sketch  of  castle 


BERITOLA  37 

and  hills,  hills  whose  summits,  rising  one  above 
the  other,  were  veiled  in  mist  and  purple  shad- 
ows. Off  to  the  south  a  curling  cloud  of  smoke 
capped  Vesuvius.  !  Dioneo  Lamberti  might  or 
might  not  exist,  the  American  told  himself  jubi- 
lantly, the  charm  of  the  little  valley  remained 
the  same! 

Suddenly  conscious  of  an  unnatural  silence  in 
the  rear  room,  Kirke  left  the  window.  He  found 
Gribbins  seated  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed  sunk 
in  a  lethargic  gloom.  He  was  moodily  in- 
specting the  frescoes  on  the  wall  as  his  master 
entered. 

"  It's  no  use,  sir,"  he  quavered,  "  I  cawn't  get 
used  to  them  circus  pictures.  I'm  trying  'ard, 
but  the  werry  thought  of  wakin'  to  be-'old  'em 
fills  me  with  'orror!  To  me,  sir,  they're  neither 
ornamental  or  decent.  'As  an  artist  'ad  this 
room,  sir?  " 

Briefly  Kirke  explained  the  Italian's  mania 
for  frescoes.  "That's  Proserpine  and  Ceres 
and  Pluto,"  he  added,  "and  there's  the  fatal 
pomegranate  " —  but  the  valet  merely  sniffed  his 
ignorance  of  the  old  myth,  adding  in  deep  dis- 
gust, "  Ooever  they  are,  sir,  the  female  'as  not 
enough  clothes  and  that  'orrible  monster  with 
'orns  is  no  sight  for  a  man  com  in'  out  of  a  sound 
sleep ! " 

In  truth,  the  artist's  conception  of  Pluto  was 
almost  as  weird  and  terrible  as  it  was  original, 


38  TRAUMEBEI 

and  the  sanguinary  pomegranate  suggested  a  re- 
cent murder.  Kirke  wheeled  in  quick  authority 
as  the  Englishman  once  more  expanded  into  a 
querulous  jeremiad. 

"  See  here,  Gribbins,"  he  exclaimed  sternly, 
"  you  must  make  the  best  of  matters  or  get  out, 
understand?  The  driver  will  be  back  in  the 
morning  with  some  things  from  Naples,  and  if 
life  becomes  unbearable  by  that  time,  you  can  re- 
turn with  him  and  I'll  pay  your  passage  back 
home." 

Gribbins  promptly  announced  in  quavering 
tones  that  "  'e  'ad  no  intention  of  leaving,  sir," 
and  to  himself  he  added  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  giving  that  Neapolitan  cut-throat,  Tony,  the 
opportunity  to  murder  him  and  "  make  off  with 
his  waluables !  "  The  "  waluables  "  in  question 
consisted  of  a  ponderous  watch-chain  of  English 
shillings,  a  highly  valued  heirloom  from  his 
grandfather  which  hung  in  cumbrous  state  from 
pocket  to  pocket.  He  returned  to  the  unpack- 
ing of  his  master's  luggage  in  a  state  of  acute 
melancholy,  presently  following  the  young  gen- 
tleman down  to  supper  with  a  gingerly  precision 
of  movement  indicative  of  complex  emotions. 

A  table  of  pine  boards,  scrubbed  to  the  shin- 
ing point,  lay  invitingly  spread  with  brown  earth- 
enware. To  the  American  the  vivid  colouring 
of  the  fruits  that  lay  heaped  upon  it  typified  the 
spirit  of  exuberance  that  dwelt  in  the  valley. 


BERITOLA  39 

The  rich  purple  of  the  fig,  the  scarlet  of  the 
enormous  cherries,  yes!  the  crimson,  too,  of  the 
roses  brimming  over  the  side  of  a  brown  bowl 
and  of  the  blazing  poppies  —  there  was  no  re- 
straint in  their  tropical  glory.  The  fierce  heat 
of  the  sun  that  had  fostered  them  knew  no  tem- 
pering. Its  scorching  rays  had  left  an  imprint 
of  intensity  upon  fruit  and  flower  and  human 
blood. 

Manuel's  wife,  an  energetic  little  woman, 
brown  as  a  nut,  with  a  faded  remnant  of  the 
beauty  that  had  been  Lauretta's  inheritance,  hur- 
ried back  and  forth  bearing  savory  platters  from 
the  kitchen.  These  Gribbins  eyed  with  discreet 
indecision  before  he  proffered  them  to  his  mas- 
ter, inwardly  condemning  the  avidity  with  which 
that  young  gentleman  ate  the  strange  concoc- 
tions, apparently  with  no  thought  of  analysing 
them! 

Kirke  smoked  a  thoughtful  pipe  on  the  little 
porch  while  the  Englishman  mincingly  partook 
of  his  own  supper.  The  dusk  was  creeping  down 
from  the  hills,  slowly  veiling  the  valley  in  a  som- 
bre mist.  One  by  one  the  lights  of  the  cottages 
leaped  up,  dotting  the  purple  twilight  with 
points  of  fire.  A  thrill  of  exaltation  surged 
through  the  American,  born  of  his  reverence  for 
the  beauty  of  the  valley  and  excitement  at  the 
peculiar  train  of  events  that  had  led  him  to  it. 

The  hours  fled  by  one  by  one  in  the  fragrant 


40  TEAUMEREI 

darkness,  but  Kirke  still  sat  on  the  cottage 
porch,  lazily  content.  The  breeze  that  came 
down  from  the  mountainside  laden  with  sugges- 
tions of  oranges  and  pine  brought  with  it  the 
sounds  of  the  night,  the  soft  twang  of  a  guitar, 
the  music  of  an  accordion,  or  an  occasional  plain- 
tive voice  raised  in  minor  melody.  Off  to  the 
south  glowed  the  fitful  pillar  of  fire  that  crowned 
the  Neapolitan  volcano  by  night. 

Some  instinct  of  caution  had  withheld  the 
American's  immediate  inquiry  for  Dioneo  Lam- 
berti.  Now  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  twinkling 
lights  of  the  old  castle  with  keen  interest,  he  re- 
flected that  its  grim  grey  walls  might  harbour 
the  very  man  he  sought.  In  swift  review  he 
questioned  again  the  identity  of  the  Italian  lad 
as  the  scene  beneath  the  elms  back  home  re- 
hearsed itself  bit  by  bit,  and  in  a  sudden  flash  of 
revelation,  as  vivid  as  a  lightning  dart  cleaving 
the  heavy  darkness  of  the  summer  night,  he  heard 
again  the  Italian's  plaintive  words : 

"Go  back  to  Italy.  Love  da  leetle  lady, 
Lauretta ! " 

Kirke  rose  abruptly,  a  curious  light  in  his 
eyes.  Had  the  fellow  meant  Lauretta  Ciapel- 
letto?  If  so,  the  discovery  was  fraught  with 
meaning.  The  Italian  lad  had  come  from  the 
little  village  whose  name  was  inscribed  in  letters 
of  gold  on  the  panel  of  the  Stradivarius.  Vainly 
the  American  pieced  together  the  little  informa- 


BEEITOLA  41 

tion  in  his  possession.  The  corresponding  dates 
following  the  names  of  Camillo  Lamberti  and  the 
master;  certainly  they  must  indicate  that  the 
violin  had  come  into  the  Lamberti  family  imme- 
diately upon  its  completion.  That  other  name 
of  more  recent  application  —  the  family  name 
still  unchanged,  suggesting  a  treasured  heirloom. 
The  peculiar  formation  of  the  instrument  with 
its  gold  lettered  panels  luring  the  American  to 
this  wonderful  little  valley  of  Beritola,  the  home, 
perhaps,  of  Dioneo  Lamberti  and  the  homesick 
Italian  exile  and  certainly  of  Lauretta  Ciapel- 
leto.  And  last  of  all  this  curious  coincidence  of 
names!  Was  the  beautiful  little  Italian  girl  the 
vagrant  musician's  "  leetle  lady,  Lauretta  "?  In 
the  light  of  all  this,  Kirke  was  inclined  to  answer 
in  the  affirmative,  and  the  ragged  exile's  one  time 
presence  in  the  valley  seemed  very  significant ! 


CHAPTER IV 

LAURETTA 

KIRKE  arose  long  before  the  patient  Grib- 
bins  had  opened  his  eyes  upon  the  horned 
horror  on  the  opposite  wall,  dressed  quietly  and 
crept  downstairs.  The  front  door  stood  wide 
open.  Outside  he  met  Manuel's  wife  coming 
down  the  valley,  her  lean,  brown  fingers  firmly 
spread  upon  her  hips  to  balance  the  weight  of  an 
enormous  bundle  of  dry  twigs  which  she  carried 
upon  her  head  with  apparent  ease,  although  the 
weight  was  evident  in  the  tremulous  vibration  of 
her  long  ear-rings. 

"  Madonna  mia! "  she  exclaimed,  her  wrinkled 
brown  face  expanding  into  a  grin  at  the  sight 
of  the  American.  "  Illustrissimo  leaves  his 
bed  early.  See,  the  valley  still  sleeps.  None 
but  I  and  the  accursed  pecorajo  yonder  rise  to 
fight  for  twigs  for  the  morning  fire ! " 

She  hurled  a  fierce  imprecation  at  a  figure 
whose  bundle  of  twigs  seemed  to  be  considerably 
smaller  than  her  own.  He  in  turn  shook  his 
fist  at  his  antagonist  who  screamed  a  parting 
malediction  back  at  him  and  turned  to  Kirke. 

"  Povero  asinaccio!"  she  burst  forth  in  sub- 

42 


LAURETTA  43 

lime  scorn,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  fire,  "each 
morning  we  fight.  There  are  twigs  in  plenty, 
but  still  we  fight,  and  I,  Marietta,  always  win !  " 
Kirke,  somewhat  mystified  by  the  inexplicable 
rancour  of  the  pair,  since  there  were  undoubt- 
edly "  twigs  in  plenty,"  ascribed  it  to  the  fierce 
little  brown  woman's  apparent  love  of  excite- 
ment, and,  smiling  broadly  at  her  irresponsible 
method  of  gratifying  it,  offered  the  suggestion 
that  it  relieved  the  monotony  of  the  morning. 
Marietta's  dark  eyes  twinkled  shrewdly  and  she 
laughed  outright.  Illustrissimo's  frank,  good- 
natured  shaft,  with  its  kernel  of  truth,  pleased 
her,  indicating  as  it  did  an  understanding  of  the 
fever  of  excitement  that  burned  in  her  veins  and 
constantly  sought  expression.  Tingling  as  the 
morning  breeze  swept  down  from  the  mountain- 
side full  in  his  face,  Kirke  strode  on  up  the  val- 
ley. 

[  The  gabled  village  lay  in  a  glow  of  gold 
poured  down  from  the  east  where,  in  the  regal 
splendour  of  his  rising,  the  Sun  King  had 
paused  on  the  crest  of  a  mountain  before  as- 
cending his  brilliant  trail  of  heat.  The  dew 
upon  the  orange  trees  flashed  in  the  sunlight 
with  changing  opalescence,  emerald  and  rose 
and  gold  imprisoned  in  a  treasure  house  of 
crystal.  Here  and  there  golden  envoys  of  the 
Sun  King  crept  down  over  a  terraced  mountain 
of  orange,  caught  the  sparkle  of  the  dew,  and 


44  TRAUMEREI 

transformed  the  mountain  into  a  grove  of 
jewels.  *  To  the  ready  fancy  of  the  American,  the 
ancient  towers  of  the  castle  stretched  along  the 
ridge  ahead  of  him,  lay  against  the  azure  of  the 
sky  like  a  mammoth  cameo  clearly  cut! 

Marietta's  assertion  that  all  the  valley  but  she 
and  the  accursed  pecorajo  still  slept  proved  to 
be  quite  true.  Turning  to  the  left  in  his  walk, 
the  American  presently  found  himself  confront- 
ing the  villa  he  had  glimpsed  from  the  top  of 
the  hillroad.  The  house  itself  gleamed  white 
and  cool  from  a  file  of  trees  and  shrubbery. 
Showers  of  jasmine  climbed  about  the  pillars  of 
the  portico,  freighting  the  air  with  peculiar 
fragrance. !  In  the  terraced  gardens  beyond 
statues  of  famous  Italians  flashed  white  against 
a  background  of  cypress  and  ilex.  A  thick 
hedge  of  scarlet  geraniums  enclosed  the  grounds 
like  a  line  of  flame.  As  the  wind  stirred  their 
petals,  they  seemed  like  blazing  tongues  of  fire 
kindled  into  crimson  by  the  burning  rays  of  the 
sun.  Kirke  whimsically  chose  to  see  in  this 
fancied  line  of  fire  about  the  villa  a  quaint  sig- 
nificance. 

From  the  trellised  walks  and  marble  balus- 
trade to  the  fountain  whose  splash  was  start- 
lingly  audible  in  the  silence  of  the  early  morn- 
ing, the  grounds  were  loyally  Italian  in  con- 
ception. In  spite  of  Nature's  kindly  veil  of  vine 
and  shrubbery,  however,  the  villa  betrayed  a 


LAURETTA  45 

need  of  repairs,  and  the  outbuildings,  leaning 
crazily,  seemed  in  imminent  danger  of  collapse. 

Reluctantly,  for  the  artistic  appeal  of  the  old 
villa  had  been  strong,  Kirke  walked  on,  past  the 
school-house  to  the  lake,  a  placid  sheet  of  water 
mirroring  the  line  of  foliage  on  its  banks  and 
the  chapel  whose  eggshell  Duomo  had  excited 
Tony's  good-natured  ridicule.  The  shadow  of 
the  slender  bell-tower  lay  across  the  lake  like  a 
long,  dark  finger  tracing  on  a  silver  page  the 
record  of  the  sun.  On  the  shore  in  a  thicket 
of  trees  lay  the  chapel,  so  near  the  water's  edge 
indeed  that  its  rude  platform  of  stones  had  been 
worn  to  smoothness  by  the  rippling  of  the  lake. 

With  a  sigh  of  infinite  content  Kirke  seated 
himself  on  the  opposite  bank,  idly  tracing  the 
tapestry  of  light  and  shadow  at  his  feet.  Whim- 
sically he  leaned  forward  with  a  smile  at  the 
fancy  to  look  for  the  lovely  lake  Nereid  who  had 
woven  the  magic  strands  into  a  pattern  of  re- 
flected tree  and  sky  and  chapel.  Perhaps  she 
would  reveal  to  him  something  of  Signore  Lam- 
bert!! 

If  the  water  nymph  had  any  intention  of  dis- 
closing herself  to  the  inquisitive  American  peer- 
ing down  into  her  crystal  retreat,  however,  it 
was  destroyed  in  embryo  by  a  heavy  footstep  so 
lacking  in  romance,  so  utterly  unimaginative, 
and  diffusing  such  an  atmosphere  of  square  toes 
and  common  sense  that  the  very  echoes  rang 


46  TRAUMEBEI 

mockingly  across  the  lake.  Kirke  turned  to  be- 
hold Gribbins,  breathless  and  anxious,  eyeing  his 
master  in  considerable  perturbation. 

"  I  begs  your  pawdon,  sir,"  he  gasped,  "  but 
I  arsked  that  Marietta  where  you  'ad  gone  with 
the  sign  language  that  John  'Apworth  taught  me, 
and  she  laughed  like  a  bloomin'  'eyeena  —  gib- 
bering away  so  sassy,  sir,  that  I  was  sure  they 
'ad  done  away  with  you  already.  I  'unted  till  I 
found  you,  sir." 

Kirke  laughed.  "And  breakfast?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Ready,  sir.  I  gathered  that  from  Mariet- 
ta's wicious  motions." 

Kirke  breakfasted  in  his  own  room  at  a  small 
table  drawn  up  at  his  request  to  the  window. 
Off  to  the  south,  where  the  pillar  of  fire  above 
Vesuvius  had  glowed  and  faded  in  the  darkness, 
a  plume  of  silvery  smoke  rolled  and  curled  like 
a  summer  cloud.  Lauretta,  as  fresh  and  pretty 
as  the  roses  she  heaped  in  a  bowl  on  the  table, 
darted  back  and  forth  at  the  excited  commands 
of  Marietta,  delivered  in  shrill  screams  from  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"Lauretta!" 

"  8if  madre." 

"The  padrone's  cherries!  Madonna  mia! 
You've  forgotten  them  again.  Did  I  not  tell 
you  — " 

"  Scusi,  madre.     I  could  not  carry  all." 


LAURETTA  47 

"  Hurry.  I  weary  of  holding  them.  Ma- 
donna !  how  slow  you  are !  " 

"Lauretta!" 

"  8i,  madre" 

"  The  padrone's  table.  Is  it  by  the  win- 
dow? " 

"  Si." 

"  On  the  left?  " 

"  No,  madre,  on  the  right !  " 

"Mother  of  God!  I  said  the  left!"  There 
was  a  rapid  creaking  of  stairs  and  Marietta 
appeared,  alert  and  vivaciously  competent. 
Laughingly,  Kirke  asserted  his  entire  satisfac- 
tion with  everything,  and,  having  assured  her- 
self by  a  deft  rearrangement  of  the  table,  the 
tense  little  brown  housekeeper  hurriedly  de- 
parted to  the  lower  floor,  where  they  heard  her 
fiercely  berating  Manuel  because  that  "  accursed 
goat  was  in  the  cabbages  again ! " 

Smiling  at  the  commotion  that  immediately 
arose  in  the  cabbages,  Kirke  turned  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  castle's  towers  and  ram- 
parts to  find  Lauretta  gazing  intently  at  him  — 
a  curious  look  in  her  long,  red-brown  eyes. 

" Eccellenza  wishes  anything  else?"  she  in- 
quired, with  a  start  of  confusion  as  his  glance 
encountered  her  own. 

"  No,  I  think  not.  Oh,  yes,"  he  added,  with  as- 
sumed carelessness,  "  who  lives  in  the  castle 
yonder? " 


48  TRAUMEREI 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito,  Signore." 

Kirke  was  conscious  of  a  genuine  thrill  of  dis- 
appointment. The  castle  had  seemed  an  emi- 
nently fitting  abode  for  the  owner  of  the  old 
Stradivarius. 

"  Eccellenza  conies  from  Am-er-i-ca? "  sud- 
denly questioned  Lauretta,  her  gaze  full  upon 
him. 

"  Yes." 

The  girl  drew  closer,  her  eyes  ablaze  with 
eagerness. 

"  Un-i-ted  States  of  Am-er-i-ca? "  she  ques- 
tioned. 

"  Yes." 

"  It  —  it  is  a  very  big  place?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  it's  fairly  sizable." 

With  the  American's  keen  eyes  upon  her  she 
seemed  to  hesitate  for  an  instant,  then  she  bent 
impulsively  toward  him,  a  wave  of  red  mantling 
the  clear  bronze  of  her  skin.  To  Kirke's  secret 
astonishment  she  was  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  Eccellensa  has  perhaps  seen  Pietro  in  that 
far  country?"  she  burst  forth  eagerly. 

"  Pietro? "  Kirke  knit  his  brows  in  thought- 
ful review,  a  bit  of  acting  to  mask  the  quick 
gleam  of  interest  in  his  eyes.  Lauretta's  lim- 
ited comprehension  of  the  distant  country's 
size  evidently  did  not  preclude  the  possibility  of 
universal  acquaintanceship.  Her  question  had 


LAURETTA  49 

instantly  brought  back  the  scene  beneath  the 
elrns  at  home  and  the  Italian  lad's  plaintive  con- 
fession of  his  love  for  the  little  lady  Lauretta ! 

"  8i,  Signore.  Pietro  Masetto.  He  left  Beri- 
tola  eight  months  ago  and  went  to  the  Signore's 
country  across  the  sea.  Eccellenza  has  heard 
of  Nuova  York?  See,"  she  went  on  in  growing 
excitement,  "  I  have  here  a  letter  from  Pietro." 
She  pulled  a  worn,  dirty  letter  from  her  bosom 
and  pointed  to  the  postmark.  It  had  grown  in- 
distinct in  its  long  journey,  but  the  word  New 
York  was  still  visible.  Kirke  returned  the  let- 
ter, convinced  of  the  absent  Pietro's  identity. 
Caution  forgotten  in  a  reckless  impulse,  he 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"  Would  your  Pietro  be  likely  to  be  interested 
in  violins?  "  he  queried,  and  instantly  regretted 
his  imprudence.  Lauretta's  beautiful  face 
flamed  red  and  two  ominous  points  of  gold  fire 
glittered  in  her  wonderful  eyes. 

"  No !  No !  Signore,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "  you 
shall  not  say  that ! "  She  clenched  her  hands 
and  passionately  stamped  a  small  foot  until  the 
breakfast  table  clattered  with  the  vibration. 
"  You  shall  not !  I  say,  you  shall  not ! "  A 
flood  of  angry  tears  followed  the  fiery  outburst. 

"  Scusi,  Signorina! "  Kirke  was  profoundly 
apologetic.  He  was  thunderstruck  at  the  girl's 
tempestuous  revelation  of  defiant  fear  and 
loyalty.  "  I  once  knew  a  Pietro  in  New  York 


50  TEAUMEREI 

who  kept  a  violin  store,"  he  added,  lying  grace- 
fully. To  assure  the  girl  of  his  utter  indiffer- 
ence he  looked  carelessly  from  the  window, 
frowning  in  disgust  at  his  own  thoughtless 
blunder.  A  belated  caution  whispered  that  it 
would  be  most  unwise  to  arouse  suspicion,  par- 
ticularly in  this  girl  who  had  been  in  touch  with 
the  exile  and  was  probably  cognisant  of  his  af- 
fairs. 

"  A  violin  store,  Eccellenza?  "  questioned  the 
girl.  She  was  calmer  now.  At  the  American's 
ready  explanation  she  had  flushed  hotly,  biting 
her  lips  in  the  effort  of  self-restraint. 

"  Yes,  on  lower  Broadway."  Kirke  recalled  a 
quaint  little  shop  whose  dusty  collection  of  in- 
struments had  often  attracted  him,  and  described 
it  with  enthusiasm,  unblushingly  christening 
the  unknown  proprietor  "  Pietro "  with  every 
appearance  of  unimpeachable  veracity. 

Lauretta  wiped  the  tears  from  her  dark  lashes, 
with  a  covert  glance  at  the  American. 

"  Scusi,  Signore!"  she  offered  lamely  in  self- 
defence,  "  my  heart  aches  for  Pietro." 

"  A  poor  excuse  for  such  an  outburst,  my  little 
friend ! "  reflected  Kirke,  but  aloud  he  said, 
"  don't  worry,  Signorina!  It  isn't  your  Pietro 
who  keeps  the  violin  store.  He's  been  there  for 
the  last  ten  years.  Your  Pietro  is  probably  sail- 
ing back  to  you.  Passage  money,"  he  added 
mentally,  "  paid  out  of  my  two  hundred !  " 


LAURETTA  51 

"Si,  Signore.  Pietro  says  in  his  letter  that 
when  he  has  saved  the  money  he  will  come  back 
to  me,"  admitted  the  girl,  hurrying  away  at  a 
frenzied  summons  from  Marietta. 

The  American  finished  his  breakfast  in 
thoughtful  silence.  The  events  of  the  morning 
had  resulted  in  one  very  strong  conviction. 
Lauretta  Ciapelletto  was  the  sweetheart  of  the 
vagrant  Italian  from  whom  he  had  purchased  the 
Stradivarius.  What,  though,  was  the  meaning 
of  the  storm  of  passionate  tears  with  which  she 
had  greeted  the  mere  suggestion  of  his  interest 
in  violins?  Did  she  know  the  history  of  the 
strange  instrument  securely  hidden  away  in  his 
trunk?  Certainly  there  was  more  than  coinci- 
dence in  this  curious  revelation  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

Idly  he  watched  the  girl  return,  idly  watched 
the  appointments  of  the  little  breakfast  table  one 
by  one  disappear.  One  question  lay  upper- 
most in  his  mind  and  impatiently  he  debated  the 
wisdom  of  voicing  it.  Lauretta  had  paused  on 
the  threshold  to  make  quite  sure  there  had  been 
no  domestic  oversight  in  the  ordering  of  Ec- 
cellenza's  room.  Reflecting  that  it  was  an  in- 
quiry any  curious  stranger  might  make  and  that 
his  own  hesitancy  was  but  the  result  of  a  hazy 
suspicion,  Kirke  lazily  arose  and  flicked  the 
ashes  from  his  cigarette. 

"  One  minute,   Lauretta,"   he  said  carelessly 


52  TRAUMEREI 

as  she  turned  to  go.  "  Who  lives  in  the  beau- 
tiful old  villa  with  the  jasmine  growing  over  it 
and  the  hedge  of  red  geraniums  around  the 
grounds?" 

The  girl  faced  him  with  startled  eyes  that 
were  swiftly  veiled  by  long  lashes  —  then  she 
answered  calmly  enough: 

"  Signore  Dioneo  Lamberti,  Eccellenza." 


CHAPTER  V 

"THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE" 

MARIETTA'S  morning  altercations  with  her 
"accursed  pecorajo,"  ending  as  they 
usually  did  in  a  burst  of  glory  under  his  very 
window,  proved  an  amusing  source  of  informa- 
tion for  Kirke  in  the  week  following  his  mysti- 
fying interview  with  Lauretta.  At  first  he  had 
sleepily  resented  the  intrusion  of  their  shrill 
voices  and  ended  by  growing  interested  in  their 
bickering  gossip.  Each  morning  the  rival  twig- 
gatherers  impartially  discussed  the  happenings 
in  the  little  valley  for  the  sole  purpose,  the 
listening  American  decided,  of  arraying  them- 
selves indiscriminately  upon  opposite  sides. 
They  taunted  each  other  furiously  on  subjects 
which  to  Kirke  seemed  of  interest  to  neither. 

"  The  Signorina  Beatrice,  Heaven  be  praised ! 
will  be  home  this  week ! "  announced  Marietta 
one  morning  in  challenging  tones. 

"  She  will  not !  "  came  in  decided  tones  from 
the  opposition. 

"Madonna  mda!"  screamed  Marietta,  "my 
Lauretta  goes  each  day  to  the  villa  to  work! 
She  knows  — " 

"  Your  Lauretta,"  declared  the  pecorajo  im- 

53 


54  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

perturbably,  "  knows  nothing !  I,  too,  go  to  the 
villa  to  work  in  the  garden  when  I  may  leave 
my  sheep." 

Marietta  instantly  exploded  into  a  vitupera- 
tive storm  of  words  that  rained  madly  down 
upon  her  antagonist's  head  for  several  seconds, 
concluding  very  decidedly,  "  I  tell  you,  Niccolo, 
the  Signorina  is  coming.  Our  padrone  at  the 
villa  has  said  it !  " 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  will  be  glad ! " 
observed  Niccolo  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  sees 
his  way  to  give  further  offence. 

"  The  Count  Teodoro  is  a  fat  pig ! "  There 
was  infinite  scorn  in  Marietta's  voice. 

"  Nevertheless  the  Signorina  Beatrice  will 
marry  the  fat  pig,"  asserted  Niccolo  with  a 
laugh.  "Per  Baccho!  What  matters  it,  my 
friend,  if  one  is  a  fat  pig  if  he  has  a  title, 
much  money,  a  castle,  and  can  marry  a  beauti- 
ful daughter  of  the  Lambertis'."  The  pecorajo 
at  times  became  acutely  philosophical,  well- 
knowing  that  it  goaded  his  rival  to  a  reckless 
frenzy. 

"Marry  Count  Teodoro?"  Marietta  laughed 
mockingly.  "Niccolo,  you  are  mad!"  She 
lowered  her  voice  though  it  still  remained  per- 
fectly audible.  "Wait,  wait  until  she  sees  the 
handsome  American!  Holy  Mother,  he  is  hung 
with  gold  pieces !  "  Kirke  grinned  at  the  frank 
statement. 


"£ADY    OF    THE    LAKE"       55 

Niccolo  asserted  his  unqualified  approval  of 
the  "  handsome  American  who  was  hung  with 
gold  pieces,"  and  Kirke  immediately  sat  up  in 
bed  alert  for  the  answer.  As  he  had  expected, 
Marietta,  stung  into  the  necessity  of  contradic- 
tion, flatly  denied  all  the  American's  claims  to 
admiration  and  excitedly  catalogued  a  mythical 
list  of  his  shortcomings  remarkably  inconsistent 
in  the  light  of  her  usual  friendly  solicitude  for 
his  welfare. 

"  And  Mother  of  God !  How  he  does  eat !  " 
she  exclaimed  in  conclusion. 

Impulsively  Kirke  leaped  out  of  bed  and 
leaned  from  the  window. 

"  And  so,  Marietta,"  he  said  reproachfully, 
struggling  to  maintain  an  impressive  gravity, 
"that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  is  it?  I'm 
ugly,  and  disagreeable  and  eat  too  much." 

"Madonna  mia!  No!"  she  exclaimed  fiercely, 
flinging  out  her  arm  in  dramatic  denial.  "II- 
lustrissimo  knows  better,  but  — "  she  pointed  an 
accusing  brown  finger  at  Niccolo  — "  must  I  not 
give  him  the  lie  always?  " 

Kirke  withdrew  his  head  with  a  chuckle  of 
delight  and  returned  to  bed,  whence  he  heard 
Marietta  continuing  in  vindictive  tones,  "Nic- 
colo,  you  have  made  trouble  for  me  with  the 
padrone!  You,  too,  are  a  fat  pig,  a  lying  beast, 
a  thief !  You  — you  would  rob  the  suckling  pig 
of  his  mother  to  make  a  pork  pie !  You  —  you 


56 

would — "  she  paused  to  find  some  disgraceful 
accusation  in  keeping  with  the  utter  depravity 
of  her  antagonist  and  finished  triumphantly, 
"you  would  steal  the  name  plate  from  your 
grandmother's  coffin ! " 

"Why  not?"  came  the  philosophical  retort; 
"  it  might  be  silver !  At  least,  Marietta,  I  do  not 
steal  violins! "  and  with  this  parting  taunt,  Nic- 
colo  strode  up  the  valley,  mockingly  singing  the 
verse  with  which  he  always  ended  the  morning 
disputes. 

"  l  Addio,  mio  caro  a/more, 
Un  amplesso,  e  poscia  addio, 
Non  tflia  pena,  non  v'ha  dolore.'  '• 

This  proceeding  as  a  rule  aggravated  Marietta 
to  the  point  of  desperation,  but  this  morning 
she  received  it  in  utter  silence.  Kirke  heard 
her  enter  the  house  and  viciously  bang  the  door. 
He  himself  was  considerably  startled  by  Nic- 
colo's  final  words,  implying,  as  they  did,  a 
knowledge  of  the  subject  that  lay  uppermost  in 
his  own  mind. 

Bit  by  bit  from  the  morning  wrangles,  Kirke 
gleaned  a  store  of  facts  that  he  would  have  hesi- 
tated to  acquire  by  questions.  Lauretta's 
passionate  outburst  and  Niccolo's  taunt  had 
taught  him  the  need  of  caution.  Dioneo  Lam- 
berti's  name  was  frequently  mentioned  and  al- 


ways  in  a  tone  of  reverential  affection.  It  was 
the  one  subject  upon  which  the  rival  twig-gath- 
erers seemed  agreed,  a  mighty  tribute  in  itself. 
His  passion  for  music,  his  secluded  life  in  the 
villa  with  his  adorable  old  sister,  the  Signorina 
Emilia,  and  his  daughter  Beatrice,  Count  Teo- 
doro  di  Gomito's  rumoured  suit;  gradually  the 
Lamberti  biography,  tantalisingly  incomplete, 
unfolded  itself  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. Marietta  expanded  handsomely  upon  the 
virtues  of  her  "  beloved  padrone  "  and  his  fam- 
ily in  whom  she  asserted  an  aggressive  pro- 
prietorship by  reason  of  the  Lambertis'  domes- 
tic dependence  upon  Lauretta's  daily  trips  to  the 
villa.  Kirke  suspected  that  Count  Teodoro, 
whom  Marietta  irreverently  designated  upon  all 
occasions  as  "  the  fat  pig,"  was  hated  and  feared 
in  the  valley  in  proportion  to  the  love  and  re- 
spect inspired  by  the  musician,  an  opinion 
graphically  confirmed  by  Tony. 

Keenly  interested  in  the  man  whose  person- 
ality had  won  for  him  such  affection  and  hom- 
age, the  American  daily  planned  his  walks  to 
include  the  villa,  eager  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
musician  whose  name  was  inscribed  in  the  Strad- 
ivarius.  His  efforts  were  unavailing.  Either 
his  selection  of  a  walking  hour  was  unfortunate 
or  Signore  Lamberti  never  left  the  interior  of 
his  villa.  Kirke  devised  endless  plans  to  invade 
his  privacy,  plans  that  speedily  mocked  him 


58  TRAUMEREI 

with  their  utter  impracticability.  Back  in 
Genoa  it  had  seemed  but  a  delightful  bit  of  ro- 
mantic adventure  to  visit  Beritola  and  present 
himself  to  Signore  Lamberti,  if  he  existed,  with 
a  courteous  inquiry  about  the  violin.  Once  in 
Beritola,  however,  the  delicacy  of  the  errand  to 
one  of  Kirke's  temperament  became  appalling. 
His  own  pride,  his  quick  consideration  for 
others,  his  proneness  to  nice  distinctions  reared 
the  barrier.  The  thought  of  forcing  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  proud  old  Italian,  whose 
careful  seclusion  was  a  matter  of  choice,  became 
extremely  distasteful.  In  the  tranquil  loveli- 
ness of  the  valley  practical  considerations  fled 
before  the  subtler  distinctions  of  chivalry.  To 
inquire  if  the  old  musician  had  willingly  parted 
with  his  violin  or  if,  in  the  light  of  Lauretta's 
passionate  tears  and  Mccolo's  assertion,  the  ab- 
sent Pietro  had  stolen  it  —  either  explanation 
fraught  with  pain  to  its  former  owner  —  seemed 
crude  and  harsh,  a  primitive  mental  surgery 
that  might  reveal  an  embarrassing  pecuniary 
need.  He  had  hoped  for  another  unguarded  ad- 
mission from  Lauretta,  but  since  her  first  men- 
tion of  Pietro  the  little  Italian  girl  had  main- 
tained an  aggravating  silence  and  Kirke  dared 
not  question  her  too  fully  without  disclosing  the 
story  of  his  purchase.  He  had  no  intention  of 
challenging  a  false  owner  to  declare  himself  by 
a  careless  hint  of  his  errand,  and  he  was  stub- 


"LADY     OF     THE     LAKE"       59 

bounty  resolved  to  learn  the  history  of  the  pre- 
cious instrument  in  full  before  relinquishing  his 
own  claim  to  it. 

To  the  American,  the  long,  drowsy  days  were 
delightful.  From  his  morning  plunge  in  the 
lake  to  the  starlit  nights,  he  was  lazily  content, 
a  growing  wonder  in  his  heart  at  the  valley's 
daily  revelations  of  beauty.  Gribbins  looked  on 
askance.  His  master's  whims  were  beyond 
comprehension.  Mr.  Bentley's  deliberate  disre- 
gard of  the  conventionalities  of  dress  manifested 
itself  in  an  unaccountable  aversion  to  dressing 
for  dinner  and  a  curious  predilection  for  a  suit 
of  flannels,  picturesque  and  becoming  enough, 
the  valet  grudgingly  admitted,  but  certainly  not 
suitable  for  constant  wear.  Mr.  Bentley's  ap- 
petite had  grown  beyond  the  limits  of  decency; 
and  Mr.  Bentley  indulged  in  long,  solitary 
mountain  tramps,  during  which  the  English- 
man fortified  himself  from  assault  by  carefully 
barricading  his  bedroom  door  with  a  trunk  and 
was  only  restrained  from  searching  for  the  de- 
linquent by  a  standing  threat  of  instant  death. 
Moreover,  the  American's  friendly  overtures  to 
the  peasants  became  daily  more  cordial. 

When  he  lounged  up  the  valley  in  the  early 
evening,  bareheaded  and  coatless,  the  sleeves  of 
his  silken  outing  shirt  rolled  back  to  the  elbows 
and  his  hands  dug  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets, 
he  democratically  joined  in  their  discussions  with 


60  TBAUMEREI 

a  native-born  fluency  that  to  Gribbins  seemed 
positively  unchristian  in  an  English  speaking 
gentleman;  and  so  presently  Mr.  Bentley's  in- 
explicable habit  of  dreaming  in  the  shadow  of 
the  ilex  trees  bordering  the  lake  during  the  long 
hot  afternoons  and  irresponsibly  falling  to  sleep 
in  an  utterly  defenceless  attitude,  thereby  invit- 
ing destruction  at  the  hands  of  the  murderous 
inhabitants  of  the  valley,  resulted  in  a  quavering 
protest. 

"  Gribbins,"  Kirke  replied  sternly,  "  you  are 
the  only  evidence  of  modern  civilisation  in  this 
valley  and  I  propose  to  forget  your  existence. 
For  the  time  being  you're  an  automaton  who 
brushes  my  clothes  by  steam.  If  I  choose  to  fall 
asleep  along  the  lake,  I'd  prefer  to  do  so  without 
the  consciousness  that  your  melancholy  eye  is 
glued  upon  me  from  the  nearest  bush  as  it  was 
this  afternoon.  You  sign  your  death-warrant  if 
you  follow  me  again.  I'll  set  Tony  on  you !  " 

The  finality  of  this  decision  was  irrevocable. 
Gribbins  steeled  himself  to  resignation  and  bit- 
terly conned  over  the  details  of  his  sojourn  in  a 
village  of  "  blood-thirsty  macaroni-eaters  "  to  re- 
late to  his  oft-quoted  confidant,  the  mysterious 
John  'Ap worth.  He  presently  became  inured  to 
Tony's  exuberance,  however,  and  could  "take  the 
magazines  and  papers  from  him  without  a  shiver, 
though  he  always  kept  a  protecting  hand  upon 
the  ponderous  watch-chain  of  shillings,  an  act 


"LADY    OF    THE    LAKE"       61 

of  suspicious  foreboding  which  the  Italian  with 
his  ready  wit  rightly  interpreted  and  promptly 
proceeded  to  justify  by  threatening  swoops  in  the 
direction  of  the  valued  ornament. 

To  Kirke  there  was  but  one  jarring  note  in 
the  summer  idyl,  a  letter  from  Mtirren  full  of 
reproaches  from  his  mother,  hurt  and  aggrieved 
by  his  change  of  plans.  The  story  of  the  vio- 
lin in  barest  outline  had  been  followed  by  a 
description  of  the  villa  and  its  figurative  hedge 
of  fire,  of  the  old  castle  on  the  ridge,  of  the  rare 
charm  of  the  valley  nestling  in  its  shadow  — 
Kirke  had  felt  rather  proud  of  the  description 
—  but  the  answer  proved  that  the  budget  of  ex- 
planation had  failed  in  its  duty  of  peacemaking, 
as  he  knew  it  would,  and  with  a  little  shrug  of 
sincere  regret  at  his  mother's  attitude,  Kirke 
again  took  up  the  fascinating  thread  of  his  new 
life  —  the  unpleasant  impression  of  the  letter 
obliterated  much  in  the  fashion  of  a  counter- 
irritant  by  the  unexpected  honour  of  meeting 
Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  face  to  face  for  the 
first  time  the  day  it  came. 

Kirke,  eager  for  the  cool  shadows  tthat  fringed 
the  lake,  had  turned  into  the  road  skirting  the 
villa  when  a  man  appeared  upon  the  portico  and 
walked  briskly  toward  the  hedge  of  fire.  For 
an  instant  his  heart  leaped  in  a  hope  that  was 
summarily  rejected  as  the  man  advanced. 
Marietta's  graphic  description  was  unmistak- 


62  TRAUMEREI 

able.  Count  Teodoro  was  walking  rapidly  to- 
ward him,  frowning  in  evident  annoyance.  He 
passed  the  American  with  a  quick  look  of  sus- 
picion and  continued  up  the  road.  Kirke  looked 
the  Italian  squarely  in  the  face,  thrilling  with 
instinctive  aversion,  predisposed,  perhaps,  by 
Marietta's  frank  discussion  of  his  unpopularity. 

He  saw  a  man  of  perhaps  forty,  tall  and 
squarely  built  in  spite  of  a  certain  heavy  em- 
bonpoint; a  face  decidedly  handsome  in  its 
perfect  regularity  of  feature,  its  fine  eyes  and 
bronze  skin,  heavily  marked  by  the  blackness  of 
hair  and  brow  and  moustache.  There  was  a 
masterful  assertion  of  importance  in  the  Italian's 
manner,  and  Kirke  watched  him  disappear,  a 
little  surprised  by  his  own  impetuous  dislike. 

A  dry,  intense  heat  lay  over  the  valley,  in- 
fusing a  drowsy  languor  in  the  very  air.  It 
crept  into  the  American's  veins  and  speedily 
lulled  him  into  sensuous  indolence  as  he  lazily 
sought  the  shadows  of  the  lake  shore.  Opposite 
the  waters  laved  the  base  of  a  giant  rock  with 
a  sleepy  murmur.  Where  the  sun  flashed 
along  the  surface  of  the  lake  it  threw  off  a  blind- 
ing radiance  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  dark  pools 
of  sapphire  eddying  in  shadow.  The  lake  re- 
flections were  brilliant  images  repeating  in  a 
marvellous  perfection  of  detail  the  intensity  of 
the  day.  Off  to  the  north,  where  the  lake  curved 
musically  around  a  jutting  point,  a  towering 


hill  seemed  grimly  to  barricade  its  rippling  line 
of  silver,  a  dark  file  of  peaks  and  ridges  stretch- 
ing far  in  the  distance  behind  it.  I 

From  half-closed  lids,  Kirke  watched  a  canoe 
float  idly  around  the  northern  bend.  It  was  ap- 
parently empty,  but  as  the  stream  bore  it  closer 
he  was  a  little  startled  to  see  a  hand  trailing 
in  the  water,  seemingly  inert  and  offering  no  re- 
sistance to  the  current.  In  quick  alarm  the 
American  recalled  a  canoe  rocking  at  anchor 
near  by.  It  had  tempted  him  daily  as  it  strained 
at  its  rope  with  no  protection  but  the  coat  of 
arms  blazing  upon  its  bow,  an  intimidating  in- 
fluence heretofore  sufficient  in  itself,  but  to-day, 
with  scant  respect  for  the  nobleman  whose  glory 
it  flaunted,  Kirke  slashed  the  painter  and 
paddled  out  into  the  lake,  intent  upon  inspect- 
ing the  drifting  boat  and  its  motionless  occu- 
pant. A  bit  of  white  fluttered  over  the  stern 
in  the  faint  breeze  that  swept  the  lake  as  the 
American  deftly  turned  his  canoe  and  floated 
toward  it. 

A  girl  lay  asleep  in  the  frail  cockle-shell, 
gracefully  indifferent  to  the  uncertain  whims 
of  the  elements,  one  slender  white  arm  buried 
in  the  crimson  silk  of  the  pillow  behind  her 
head,  the  other  still  trailing  in  the  water.  The 
American's  eyes  flashed  with  admiration,  the 
keen  appreciation  of  the  artist  for  grace  and 
colour  and  the  fitness  of  things.  There  was  a 


64  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

suggestion  of  the  Orient  in  the  girl's  indolent 
pose,  in  the  rich  tints  of  the  cushions,  in  the 
deep  saffron  of  the  lining  wood  of  the  canoe,  re- 
peated in  a  mellower  tone  in  the  wood  of  the 
guitar  lying  carelessly  in  the  stern. 

The  wind  had  ruffled  the  sleeper's  hair  into  a 
sombre  mist,  framing  a  face  oval  and  clear  cut; 
it  had  lashed  her  cheeks  into  a  delicate  colour 
which  the  American  instantly  likened  to  the 
soft  hue  of  a  crumpled  rose  leaf.  Yes,  she  too 
was  Oriental  in  colouring  from  the  black  masses 
of  her  hair,  so  dark  indeed  that  its  shadows 
seemed  heavily  purple,  to  the  olive  skin  — 
delicately  etched  by  the  jet  of  brows  and 
lashes. 

Again  the  wind  sprang  up  and  rippled  the  sur- 
face of  the  lake.  This  time  it  snatched  a  slip 
of  paper  from  the  girl's  canoe  and  sent  it  flut- 
tering toward  the  American.  The  paper  bore 
but  four  lines  of  writing,  hurriedly  copied,  it 
seemed,  from  a  favourite  poem.  Kirke  read 
them,  approving  the  mood  that  had  led  the  girl 
to  copy  them.  The  unknown  poet  had  pictured 
a  lake  of  blazing  heat  fringed  in  shadow,  magic- 
ally imprisoning  an  atmosphere  of  fierce  heat 
and  indolent  languor;  he  had  crystallised  in 
poetic  form  the  tremulous  spirit  of  the  South 
that  brooded  to-day  over  the  lake,  seeking  to  en- 
tangle men  in  its  sinuous  meshes  to  make  them 
prisoners  of  the  sun,  to  lull  them  treacherously 


"LADY     OF     THE     LAKE"       65 

into  calm,  while  nursing  the  slumberous  passions 
of  mind  and  body. 

Both  canoes  were  floating  idly  with  the  cur- 
rent. With  a  smile  Kirke  drew  a  pencil  from 
his  pocket  and  scribbled  rapidly  across  the 
paper  in  Italian, 

To  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake !  " 

Are  you  the  lovely  Nereid  who  weaves  the  reflected  tap- 
estry in  the  water  that  you  dare  to  dream  upon  its  fickle 
bosom  and  tempt  the  Lake  to  claim  its  own?  A  solicitous 
Goblin,  hidden  along  the  shore,  will  watch  your  fairy  barque 
until  you  wake  to  control  it! 

With  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  the 
American  noiselessly  slipped  the  paper  beneath 
the  strings  of  the  guitar  to  protect  it  from  the 
fitful  breeze  and  paddled  briskly  back  to  shore, 
fearful  lest  the  sleeper  should  waken  before  he 
had  found  a  safe  retreat.  In  the  shadow  of  a 
thick  clump  of  ilex  he  flung  himself  down  to 
watch  the  progress  of  the  drifting  canoe.  A 
strange  bird  sent  a  harsh  call  ringing  across  the 
lake  and  the  girl  abruptly  sat  up.  Kirke  saw 
her  lean  toward  the  guitar.  An  instant  later 
she  swept  the  lake  shore  with  startled  eyes,  rap- 
idly turned  and  paddled  to  the  north,  darting 
out  of  sight  around  the  bend  whence  she  bad 
floated. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOCTURNIA 

T  TABIT  is  a  merciless  tyrant  to  whom  we  all 
A  A  unconsciously  surrender.  '.  It  drove  Kirke 
to  the  same  ilex  trees  the  following  afternoon; 
it  ruthlessly  directed  his  eyes  to  the  northern 
bend  of  the  lake;  it  even  pointed  a  tantalising 
finger  at  the  Count's  canoe  and  projected  a 
mirage  before  him  in  which  the  American  saw 
himself  seated  in  its  aristocratic  interior,  pad- 
dling around  the  bend  of  the  lake  to  explore 
its  northern  shores,  a  suggestion  which  he 
abruptly  frowned  away.  Inconsistently,  how- 
ever, although  the  weather  and  the  water  had 
succumbed  to  the  Tyrant  and  were  repeating  the 
same  tone  of  light  and  heat,  it  failed  to  produce 
the  dreaming  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  an  absurd 
violation  of  precedent  decidedly  annoying.  In 
her  stead  it  inaugurated  an  irresistible  drowsi- 
ness, born  of  the  crooning  of  the  lake,  of  the 
woodland  orchestra  of  piping  birds  with  its 
long,  rolling  drum-beat  by  the  cicadas,  of  the  hot 
afternoon's  wearisome  vigil,  a  drowsiness  that 
near  sunset  terminated  the  American's  scientific 
effort  —  very  ambitious  in  view  of  the  distance 
—  to  analyse  the  geological  strata  of  the  bill  at 

66 


NOCTURNIA  67 

the  northern  bend,  and  lulled  him  into  a  rest- 
less slumber.  He  awoke  with  a  start,  conscious 
of  a  glimmering  patch  of  white  directly  oppo- 
site. By  degrees  it  resolved  itself  into  a  sheet 
of  paper  conspicuously  pinned  to  an  ilex  bough 
and,  reflecting  that  it  had  not  been  there  before 
Ms  brief  siesta,  Kirke  lazily  rose  to  examine  it. 
There  was  a  pencilled  inscription  scribbled  across 
the  surface. 

"  To  the  Presumptuous  Goblin  (unduly  so- 
licitous) Hidden  Along  the  Shore!"  he  read,  a 
quick  flash  of  amusement  in  his  eyes  at  the 
mocking  quotation,  "are  you  Father  Neptune 
himself  that  you  presume  to  chide  a  dreaming 
Nereid?  The  lake  and  I  are  old  friends,  Sig- 
nore  Americano! " 

Kirke  re-read  the  mocking  message  in  startled 
interest.  The  consciousness  that  the  "  Lady  of 
the  Lake "  had  mischievously  pinned  it  to  the 
ilex  bough  while  he  slept  thrilled  him  unac- 
countably. Her  apparent  knowledge  of  his 
identity,  however,  puzzled  him.  He  had  been 
securely  hidden  when  she  awoke  and  his 
scribbled  warning  had  been  couched  in  careful 
Italian.  If,  as  he  shrewdly  suspected,  she  had 
to-day  discovered  his  retreat  by  chance,  how  had 
she  guessed  that  the  sleeper  was  the  presumptu- 
ous author  of  the  scrawl  tucked  beneath  the 
guitar  strings? 

A  little  piqued  by  the  reflection  that  he  had 


68 

no  clue  whatever  to  the  identity  of  the  mocking 
Nereid,  he  sought  the  water's  edge  and  faced  the 
breeze  that  was  now  blowing  full  and  strong 
across  the  lake.  It  was  long  past  sunset,  i  Above 
the  ghostly  line  of  cypress  on  the  farther  shore, 
the  sky  had  grown  delicately  violet,  splashed 
with  fading  rose  and  amber.  Dusk  was  veil- 
ing the  distant  ridges;  through  the  crepuscular 
dimness  their  outlines  loomed  grey  and  indefi- 
nite, one  by  one  resolving  into  fantastic  moun- 
tains of  smoky  mist.  \  Sublimely  indifferent  to 
the  culinary  manage  of  the  Ciapellettos,  Kirke 
stretched  himself  out  upon  the  lake  shore  with 
a  sigh  of  infinite  content,  revelling  in  the  soft, 
glimmering  tones  of  the  southern  twilight. 

The  lake  slowly  purpled,  a  haze  trembling 
above  it,  half  grey,  half  violet.  It  crept  from 
shore  to  shore,  blotting  out  the  lines  of  cypress 
and  ilex  and  deepening  at  the  northern  bend  into 
shadows  of  ebony. 

The  outline  of  the  chapel  opposite  grew  indis- 
tinct, still  retaining,  however,  the  picturesque 
semblance  of  a  dream  church.  And  suddenly 
from  its  shadowy  walls,  the  tremulous  tones  of 
an  organ  swept  softly  across  the  lake.  To  the 
American  the  music  seemed  a  fitting  expression 
of  his  own  response  to  the  beauty  of  the  twi- 
light. It  grew,  in  crescendo,  to  chords  full  and 
rich  and  deep  as  the  unseen  player  opened  the 
great  diapason  of  the  organ  and  flooded  the  lake 


NOCTUENIA  69 

with  a  rolling  majesty  of  sound,  the  blare  of  the 
organ  trumpets  triumphantly  heralding  the  ap- 
proach of  Night.  The  rumbling  music  of  the 
Pedal  Bourdon  echoed  among  the  hills  with  the 
muttering  sound  of  distant  thunder.  It  died 
away,  giving  place  to  the  plaintive  harmony  of 
the  reeds,  then  clear  and  sweet  above  its  accom- 
paniment rose  the  wail  of  the  organ  oboe  in 
solo,  an  inanimate  singer  voicing  the  perfect 
melody  of  Schumann's  Traumerei. 

The  familiar  strains  awakened  the  memory  — 
how  distant  it  seemed!  —  of  Pietro,  of  the  vio- 
lin, for  the  melody  that  had  floated  out  from  be- 
neath his  own  bow  that  day  in  convincing  test 
of  the  violin's  value  had  been  the  very  one  that 
now  softly  sang  its  way  to  his  heart.  Im- 
pulsively he  sought  the  Count's  canoe  and 
paddled  across  the  lake  to  the  chapel.  The  en- 
trance lay  away  from  the  shore  at  the  end  of  a 
forest  path  and,  finding  the  door  ajar,  the  Ameri- 
can noiselessly  entered.  A  single  candle  burned 
upon  the  altar,  and  in  the  dim  circle  of  light,  too 
faintly  luminous  to  shine  through  the  rear  win- 
dows overlooking  the  water,  sat  a  girl  reverently 
fingering  the  organ  keys,  her  eyes  upon  the  great 
pipes  above  her  head.  Kirke  could  not  see  her 
face.  The  dark  head  and  white  gown  of  the 
player,  however,  were  familiar.  He  recognised 
in  them  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  and  moved  si- 
lently to  the  shadows  at  the  left  to  watch  her 


70  TRAUMEBEI 

profile.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  rapt  and 
earnest  and  thoughtfully  tender.  Certainly  a 
girl  of  many  moods!  The  pretty  indolence  of 
the  dreamer  in  the  canoe,  the  capricious  humour 
of  the  Nereid  who  had  pinned  the  mocking  mes- 
sage to  the  ilex  bough,  and  now  this  reverent 
girl  seeking  a  musical  expression  of  her  emo- 
tional force,  Kirke  marvelled  at  the  curious  tem- 
peramental revelation  of  each. 

The  music  changed  to  a  crooning  whisper  — 
it  seemed  indeed  but  the  echo  of  a  distant  'cello 
—  and  stopped.  Kirke  emerged  from  the  shad- 
ows and  approached  the  organ.  The  girl  turned 
in  quick  alarm  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 
colouring  a  little  as  her  eyes  met  those  of  the 
American. 

"  You  seem  fond  of  solitude,  '  Lady  of  the 
Lake! '"  observed  Kirke  quietly. 

"  I  am ! "  she  flashed  back  pointedly,  quickly 
recovering  herself,  "  and  its  invaders  I  ruth- 
lessly condemn  to  the  mercy  of  the  waters  with 
whose  command  you  have  so  artistically  en- 
dowed me ! "  A  hint  of  displeasure  crept  into 
her  voice.  "  You  startled  me,"  she  added  slowly. 

"  You  startled  me,  Signorina !  "  accused  Kirke 
gravely.  "  The  chapel  was  dissolving  into  mist 
and  I  thought  the  sounds  that  crept  from  it  were 
indeed  Trdumerei.  I  even  fancied  that  they 
formed  the  mystic  melody  of  the  Twilight  In- 
carnate stealing  across  the  lake  to  express  to  me 


NOCTURNIA  71 

the  harmony  of  her  blended  shadows  in  chords 
of  fairy  music." 

"  Very  pretty,  Sir  Goblin ! "  mocked  the  girl, 
swiftly  veiling  the  gleam  of  appreciation  that 
had  flashed  up  in  her  dark  eyes.  "  Are  you  such 
an  ethereal  being,"  she  went  on  satirically, 
glancing  curiously  at  him,  "  that  you  enjoy  im- 
munity from  mundane  pangs  of  hunger?  Or  do 
you  indulge  in  long,  solitary  vigils  along  the  lake 
in  the  hope  of  dethroning  King  Neptune?  A 
continued  abstinence  might  possibly  reduce  you 
to  the  necessary  royal  vapour!  I  thought  of 
course,"  she  finished  disapprovingly,  "  that  you 
had  gone  home  like  a  civilised  being  with  a  con- 
ventional appetite !  " 

"  I  had  a  disturbing  experience,"  apologised 
the  American,  "  which  explains  my  domestic 
lapse.  A  very  sarcastic  Nereid  communicated 
with  me  this  afternoon  in  writing." 

"  Impossible ! "  mocked  the  girl  in  wide-eyed 
astonishment. 

"  It  does  sound  so,  doesn't  it?  "  Kirke  looked 
straight  into  her  eyes.  "  It  has  made  me  feel 
very  ethereal,  as  if  I  had  absorbed  her  super- 
natural qualities.  Naturally  in  the  light  of  such 
a  transformation,  I  couldn't  with  decency  de- 
scend to  eating !  " 

"  Nevertheless,"  averred  the  girl,  smiling,  "  the 
Nereid  dined  very  substantially  an  hour  ago  and 
returned  to  the  chapel  under  the  delusion 


72  TRAUMEEEI 

that  the  shore  was  quite  free  from  goblins!" 

"  It  would  seem,"  commented  Kirke  absently, 
apparently  addressing  an  organ  stop,  "  that  a 
Nereid  whose  peculiar  gifts  enabled  her  to  fer- 
ret out  the  nationality,  identity,  and  hiding 
place  of  a  Solicitous  Goblin  with  absolutely  no 
clue,  would  experience  no  great  difficulty  in  as- 
certaining the  presence  of  a  misguided  mortal 
mooning  on  the  lake  shore !  " 

"  If  the  Goblin  became  a  misguided  mortal  in 
her  absence,"  came  the  quick  retort,  "  the  Nereid 
might  possibly  have  undergone  a  similar  trans- 
formation. That  would  account  for  her  delu- 
sion." 

"  You  paddled  very  softly  or  I  should  have 
heard  you ! " 

The  girl  flushed.  "  I  always  paddle  softly  and 
slowly  at  twilight,"  she  offered  defensively; 
then  catching  the  sympathetic  comprehension  in 
the  American's  face,  she  continued  naively,  "  it 
seems  a  sacrilege  to  disturb  the  shadows.  I  just 
creep  over  them ! " 

She  rose  as  if  to  go. 

"  Tell  me,"  pleaded  Kirke  inconsequently, 
"  how  you  knew !  " 

A  gleam  of  mischief  sparkled  again  in  the 
dark  eyes.  The  girl  who  in  her  brief  melting 
mood  had  confessed  her  unwillingness  to  dis- 
turb the  lake  shadows  had  been  replaced  again 
by  the  mocking  Nereid. 


NOCTURNIA  73 

"  Italian  gentlemen,"  she  said  enigmatically, 
addressing  the  organ  stop  which  the  American 
had  selected  as  his  confidant,  "  who  are  suffi- 
ciently cultured  and  imaginative  to  talk  of 
Nereids  in  written  warnings  do  not  confuse  the 
tenses  of  their  verbs! " 

"Did  I?" 

"You  did!" 

"  And  automatically  declared  myself  a  for- 
eigner," deplored  Kirke.  "  That  was  because  I 
hurried  so." 

"  Besides,"  added  the  girl  lightly,  "  Italian 
Nereids  are  omniscient.  I  should  have  known 
anyway." 

"  Which  accounts,  perhaps,  for  your  ready  rec- 
ognition and  invasion  of  my  hiding  place?  " 

"  Had  it  occurred  to  Signore  Bentley  " —  Kirke 
started  at  the  name.  She  was  indeed  omnis- 
cient !  — "  that  he  is  the  only  forestiere  in  Beri- 
tola?  You  deliberately  appropriated  my  ilex 
summer  house  along  the  lake  where  I  read 
in  the  long  hot  afternoons,"  she  accused  sud- 
denly. "  Perhaps  you  can  imagine  my  horror 
when  I  sought  it  to  find  a  prosaic  American 
lazily  sleeping  in  it !  " 

"  It  was  a  sacrilege,"  agreed  Kirke,  "  but  I 
was  tired  of  waiting." 

The  girl  ignored  the  implication. 

"  Besides,  I  have  another  exhaustive  source 
of  information."  She  moved  swiftly  toward  the 


74  TRAUMEREI 

door.  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake  must  return  to 
her  watery  throne,"  she  said  whimsically.  "  It 
behooves  not  a  daughter  of  the  mist  to  gossip 
with  mortals." 

"  You  are  no  longer  the  Lady  of  the  Lake ! " 
declared  the  American.  "  The  conception  is  far 
too  commonplace.  I  shall  call  you  Nocturnia, 
the  wilful  Queen  of  the  Southern  Night.  It  car- 
ries with  it  a  suggestion  of  the  night  and  the 
shadows  and  the  mystic  music  floating  over  the 
lake,  breathing  the  dreaming  melody  of  the  Trau- 
merei" 

"  You  are  very  fanciful,"  the  girl  said  quietly, 
closing  the  chapel  door.  "  I've  forgotten  the 
candle !  "  she  added  contritely. 

Kirke  retraced  his  steps  and  blew  out  the 
flickering  light.  When  he  again  sought  the 
chapel  entrance  she  was  gone.  Impatiently  he 
hurried  to  the  lake  shore.  It  was  quite  dark  but 
the  slender  sickle  of  the  moon  hung  above  the 
lake,  casting  a  pale  radiance  upon  the  water.  A 
dancing  pathway  of  greenish-silver  lay  across 
from  shore  to  shore  and  but  a  few  feet  away  a 
canoe  rocked  in  the  gleaming  trail. 

"  You  should  be  afraid  to  go  home ! "  called 
Kirke  softly  and  a  little  suggestively,  manfully 
suppressing  a  desire  to  follow  her. 

"  You  forget,"  came  the  answer  lightly  over 
the  water,  "  that  I  am  Nocturnia,  Queen  of  the 
Southern  Night.  A  royal  guard  of  fireflies 


75 

awaits  to  escort  me  on  the  farther  shore !  "  She 
pointed  to  the  other  side  where  the  soft  glow  of 
fireflies  pulsed  intermittently  in  the  velvet  dark- 
ness. 

"  But  you  go  to  the  north ! "  objected  Kirke. 

"  Only  by  day.  By  night  I  moor  on  the  other 
side ! "  She  turned  and  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder,  her  dark,  mocking  face  illumined  by 
the  ghostly  light  of  the  rising  moon.  "  Buona 
notte,  Signore  Americano!"  she  called. 

There  was  a  dip  and  a  splash  and  a  shower  of 
sparkling  jewel-drops  from  the  paddle  whose 
blade  gleamed  like  silver  as  it  left  the  water; 
then  the  canoe  darted  swiftly  across  the  lake  in 
the  rippling  pathway  of  the  moon  to  the  wait- 
ing fireflies  who  seemed  indeed  to  swing  their 
lanterns  from  time  to  time  to  guide  the  Queen. 
The  moonlight  danced  along  the  water,  bathing 
her  slender  form  in  radiance,  and  Kirke  fancied 
it  floated  about  her  head  like  a  luminous  veil  of 
silver  mist. 

She  was  indeed  Nocturnia!  he  thought,  his 
eyes  alight ;  Nocturnia,  a  creature  of  whims  and 
fancies,  of  nocturnal  shadows  and  melodies  and 
dreams,  a  capricious  goddess  of  the  southern 
night,  the  midnight  shadows  of  her  hair  impris- 
oned by  a  floating  veil  of  moonfire,  her  escort  a 
battalion  of  fireflies  drawn  up  in  glittering  array 
on  the  farther  shore,  her  fairy  barque,  in  which 
she  paddled  across  the  lake  of  rippling  moon- 


76  TKAUMEREI 

light,  propelled  by  a  blade  of  purest  silver! 
And  high  above  in  the  sky  hung  the  Night 
Queen's  coat-of-arms,  an  argent  crescent  in  a 
field  of  stars! 


CHAPTER  VII 

ME.  PHILIP  AINSWORTH 

would  think,"  ruminated  Kirke,  glar- 
ing  at  an  accumulated  pile  of  mail,  "that 
a  fellow  could  purchase  immunity  from  fiendish 
business  letters  once  in  a  while.  I  wish  I  could 
send  out  a  thought  wave  that  would  gently  in- 
timate to  Rogers  what  I  think  of  him.  It 
would  probably  combine  all  the  artistic  quali- 
ties of  an  earthquake,  a  flood  and  a  fire  in  its 
effect  upon  the  territory  through  which  it 
passed.  '  Copper  going  up ! '  What  the  deuce 
do  I  care  if  it  goes  up  and  copper-plates  the 
sky!" 

Kirke  savagely  tore  his  way  through  a  pile 
of  correspondence  conscientiously  forwarded 
from  Miirren  by  his  mother,  and  answered  the 
more  important  ones  with  a  curt  line,  intimating 
that  his  lawyers  had  instructions  to  cope  with 
all  necessary  business  problems  that  should  come 
up  during  the  summer,  a  proceeding  which  to  his 
growing  discomfort  involved  the  whole  after- 
noon. 

.The  breeze  that  crept  through  the  window  was 
drowsily  warm  and  fragrant. '  Outside,  the 
cicadas  were  shrilling  insistent  reminders  of  the 

11 


78  TRAUMEREI 

heat  that  mantled  the  valley  in  a  fiery  haze,  but 
Kirke,  staring  absently  from  the  window  with 
his  pen  trailing  off  into  an  elongated  scrawl,  was 
unconscious  of  the  blinding  glare  of  the  sun. 
He  saw  only  the  lake,  rippling  musically  around 
the  northern  bend,  the  moss  and  the  cypress 
along  the  shore,  the  chapel!  A  mule  trudging 
along  beneath  a  stack  of  straw  obtruded  itself 
within  the  line  of  his  vision  and  the  mirage  van- 
ished. The  bell  about  the  donkey's  neck  tinkled 
audibly  in  the  quiet.  The  swarthy  peasant, 
walking  beside  it,  an  enormous  grape-vine  leaf 
grotesquely  tucked  behind  each  ear  in  fancied 
protection  from  the  heat,  flashed  his  teeth  in  a 
friendly  grin  and  waved  a  brown  arm  in  salu- 
tation. Kirke  returned  it  and  with  a  sigh 
turned  back  to  the  letter  that  lay  before  him,  a 
final  effort  to  appease  his  mother. 

His  pen  had  barely  touched  the  paper  again, 
however,  when  the  calm  of  the  sleepy  afternoon 
was  shattered  by  a  sound  so  thoroughly  out  of 
keeping  with  the  atmosphere  of  Beritola  that 
Kirke  leaned  out  of  the  window  in  startled  as- 
tonishment. A  big  Panhard  was  pounding  its 
way  down  the  steep  mountain  road,  the  whirr 
of  the  exhaust  alarmingly  distinct.  The  mon- 
ster belched  forth  an  incredible  number  of 
hoarse  honks  in  declaration  of  arrival  and 
Kirke  grinned  at  the  instant  commotion  in 
the  valley.  In  evident  alarm  the  peasants 


MR.     PHILIP    AINSWORTH    79 

poured  from  their  houses,  crossing  themselves 
devoutly. 

The  car  came  rapidly  on  at  a  speed  that  would 
have  thrown  a  traffic  squad  into  hysterics.  A 
head  encased  in  leather  cap  and  goggles  pro- 
jected itself  through  a  cloud  of  dust  and  in- 
quired in  execrable  Italian  if  he  had  "  struck  " 
Beritola  —  of  which  in  its  literal  sense  there 
was  no  doubt  in  Kirke's  mind  —  and  upon  re- 
ceiving a  panic-stricken  reply  in  the  affirmative, 
drove  like  mad  through  the  gaping  villagers  and 
stopped  suddenly  with  a  sharp  report  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  tires.  The  valley  instantly 
cleared,  most  of  the  peasants  seeking  the  safety 
of  their  cottages  and  cautiously  peering  from 
doors  and  windows.  Fate  had  halted  the  Pan- 
hard  within  a  short  distance  of  the  Ciapelletto 
cottage  and  an  instant  later  Kirke  heard  a  voice 
whose  familiar  accents  were  unmistakable. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Riley,"  it  drawled. 
"  don't  tell  me  you've  blown  out  another  shoe !  " 

The  chauffeur's  freckled  face  cracked  in  a 
broad  grin,  revealing  a  mouth  of  incredible  di- 
mensions. 

"  Shure,  sor,"  he  said,  "  be  the  delicate  little 
sound  that  jist  soothed  me  ear,  it  do  be  afther 
lookin'  that  way!  The  divil's  in  'em.  These 
dago  roads  is  hell  on  tires,  sor.  Oi've  a  notion 
we've  struck  a  glass  mine  this  time.  Did  we 
blow  all  the  guineas  awray?  " 


80 

With  a  grin  of  delight  Kirke  bounded  down 
the  stairs.  A  young  giant,  whose  leather  leg- 
gins  and  motoring  rig  were  thickly  creased  with 
dust,  lazily  emerged  from  the  machine  and  was 
about  to  seat  himself  upon  the  ground  in  the 
capacity  of  advisory  spectator  to  the  proposed 
change  of  tires  when  his  eyes  suddenly  lit  upon 
Kirke,  who  was  silently  regarding  him  in  con- 
siderable amusement. 

"  Kirke  Bentley,"  he  roared,  shaking  himself 
until  the  dust  flew,  "  I'm  after  you !  I'm  com- 
missioned by  the  Government  and  your  maternal 
ancestor  to  drag  you  by  main  force  to  an  asylum 
for  incurables." 

Kirke  grinned  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Shake  hands,"  he  suggested,  "  and  we'll  talk 
it  over." 

Philip  Ainsworth  seized  the  proffered  hand 
and  wrung  it  heartily,  jerked  off  his  goggles,  and 
having  removed  his  leather  cap,  gave  it  a  ter- 
rific bang  against  the  side  of  the  car  to  remove 
the  dust.  Shorn  of  his  cranial  appendages  he 
revealed  a  tousled  mop  of  wind-blown  brown 
hair  and  a  grimy  face.  It  was  evident  that  a 
scientific  application  of  soap  and  water  might 
result  in  a  decidedly  good-looking,  clean-cut 
young  man,  but  at  present  the  only  feature  visi- 
ble through  his  mask  of  dirt  was  a  pair  of  dark 
blue  eyes  that  flashed  a  warning  of  perennial 
mischief  and  daring.  They  twinkled  good- 


MR     PHILIP    AINSWORTH    81 

humouredly  at  Kirke's  reply  and  the  lower  part 
of  his  face  expanded  into  a  broad  grin. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  you're  glad  to  see 
me?  "  he  suggested  lazily. 

"  Don't  tempt  ine  to  be  a  hypocrite ! "  re- 
torted Kirke,  smiling. 

"  Truthful  to  the  last !  "  murmured  his  friend 
admiringly.  "  Even  after  he  had  become  a  dod- 
dering imbecile,  first  made  known  to  his  friends 
by  a  sudden  trip  to  a  village  he'd  never  heard  of 
before,  he  retained  that  scrupulous  accuracy  of 
statement  for  which  we  all  loved  him.  Riley, 
you  might  be  fixing  that  tire." 

The  Irishman  obligingly  descended  and  be- 
came the  nucleus  of  a  growing  crowd.  Kirke 
ushered  his  irrepressible  friend  up  to  his  room 
with  a  grin. 

"  I  gather,"  he  observed,  "  that  I  am  to  have 
your  blessed  companionship  for  the  night !  " 

"  Sons  of  Garibaldi !  what  hospitality ! "  ex- 
ploded Phil.  "  Yes,  figlio  mio,  to-night  and 
many  other  nights !  " 

"  Not  on  your  life ! "  came  the  prompt  reply. 
"  Twenty-four  hours  of  you  is  nerve-racking  for 
a  peaceable  man  like  myself.  To-morrow  night 
at  sundown  you  disappear  over  the  crest  of  yon 
hill,  Panhard,  Riley  and  all !  " 

Kirke  smilingly  curtailed  his  friend's  elab- 
orate exposition  of  his  plans  for  the  summer  by 
summoning  Gribbins.  In  response  to  his  order 


82 

the  Englishman  haughtily  descended  the  stairs 
to  look  after  Mr.  Ainsworth's  luggage,  a  proceed- 
ing which  resulted  in  a  muffled  altercation  be- 
tween him  and  Riley.  The  valet's  distrust  of  the 
abandoned  chauffeur  was  instinctive.  Riley's 
crimson  locks,  his  freckled  face  and  the  dare- 
devil gleam  in  his  eyes  had  awakened  it ;  his  ad- 
miring imitation  of  the  Englishman's  upturned 
nose  as  the  latter  paused  at  the  Panhard,  his 
lurid  profanity  as  he  mended  the  shoe,  and  his 
polite  query  if  there  was  any  truth  in  the  prev- 
alent opinion  that  the  English  were  a  race  of 
blockheads  established  it  beyond  recall. 

The  domestic  adjustment  that  followed  was 
rife  with  excitement,  and  Kirke  regarded  the  in- 
vasion of  his  rooms  with  considerable  amuse- 
ment. It  involved  a  wild  scurrying  upon  the 
part  of  Lauretta,  Marietta  and  Riley,  reinforced 
by  the  more  dignified  assistance  of  the  English- 
man, who  watched  the  chauffeur's  energetic  ap- 
propriation of  his  own  room  in  silent  horror. 
Between  puffs  of  cigar  smoke,  Mr.  Ainsworth 
lazily  marshalled  his  cosmopolitan  forces  with  a 
running  fire  of  ridiculous  comment.  His  eye 
presently  fell  upon  the  little  supper  table  by  the 
window,  about  which  Marietta  was  circling  in 
wild  excitement,  and  without  further  ceremony 
he  seated  himself,  complimenting  Marietta  ex- 
travagantly in  his  unique  Italian  upon  the  tempt- 
ing array  of  food. 


MK.     PHILIP    AINSWORTH     83 

"  Madonna  mia! "  shrieked  the  little  brown 
woman,  pounding  her  hands  together  in  fierce 
delight,  "  a  mad  fellow,  that  young  man !  "  It 
was  quite  evident  that  his  vagaries  had  already 
proclaimed  him  a  kindred  spirit. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  little  supper,  Mr. 
Ainsworth  arose,  carefully  arrayed  a  line  of  ex- 
cellent cigars  along  the  edge  of  Kirke's  bed  like 
a  picket  fence  with  the  suggestion  that  they  be- 
gin at  each  end  and  smoke  toward  the  middle, 
and  proceeded  to  enlighten  Kirke  concerning  his 
plans  for  the  summer  which  were,  to  say  the 
least,  startling. 

"  I'm  lazy,"  he  commented,  appropriating  the 
first  picket,  "  and  I  have  an  extraordinary  feeling 
of  weariness ! " 

Kirke  grinned  but  wisely  refrained  from  com- 
ment upon  this  lifelong  tendency  of  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's. 

"  I  hadn't  much  interest  in  Alpine  climb- 
ing—" 

"  Nor  I !  "  interpolated  Kirke. 

"  And  so  when  your  letter  arrived  at  Mtirren 
with  the  sad  news  of  your  sudden  seizure,  I  — 
er — "  Phil  cleared  his  throat  and  averted  his 
eyes,  "  I  grew  restless.  Your  mother  was  fret- 
ting about  your  eccentricity  —  she  really  had 
doubts  of  your  sanity,  old  man  —  and  so  with 
that  innate  generosity  for  which  I  am  justly 
famous,  I  offered  to  risk  my  life  and  look  you 


84  TEAUMEREI 

up.  In  fact,"  Phil  beamed  with  the  utmost 
friendliness  and  waved  his  cigar  about,  "  I'm 
going  to  spend  the  summer  with  you." 

"  Indeed  you're  not !  " 

"  You  surprise  me !  Your  remark,  however,  is 
merely  another  indication  of  your  insanity  and 
as  such  does  not  affect  my  decision.  I  like  the 
looks  of  this  valley  immensely.  I'm  just  in  the 
mood  for  rusticating,  since  it  entails  no  physical 
or  mental  effort  of  any  sort,  and  you  know, 
Kirke,  that  I'm  never  happy  where  you  are  not !  " 

"  You'll  have  to  learn  to  be  happy  without 
me,"  grinned  Kirke,  amiably,  stretching  his  legs 
out  comfortably  and  imitating  the  comprehen- 
sive cigar  swoop  with  which  Phil  had  announced 
his  decision,  "  I've  changed  my  original  inten- 
tion. Instead  of  leaving  to-morrow  night  — 
you'll  go  early  in  the  morning." 

Phil  looked  out  of  the  window  and  regarded 
the  castle  intently. 

"  You'll  get  over  it,  old  man,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  Doc  Carrington  says  —  he's  up  at  Miirren 
now  with  the  aspiring  icicles  —  that  you  have  — 
er  — "  he  drew  an  old  letter  from  his  pocket  and 
affected  to  study  it  with  an  air  of  exaggerated 
gravity.  "  Oh,  yes,  some  encephalic  disorder 
superinduced  by  physical  inertia.  I  presume  the 
laity  would  call  it  lunacy  resulting  from  acute 
laziness.  He  says  you'll  recover  if  you  have 
proper  care,  such  as  I  alone  can  g|ive  you." 


ME.     PHILIP    AINSWORTH    85 

Mr.  Ainsworth  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar, 
ruffled  his  brown  hair  with  a  characteristic  mo- 
tion, and  remarked,  "  now,  sir,  you're  going  to 
tell  me  the  true  story  of  this  violin  business. 
The  brief  account  you  sent  to  Mu'rren  sounded 
like  a  rave  from  a  foolish  house.  When  your 
mother  told  me  about  the  violin  with  folding 
doors  —  by  the  way,  Kirke,  you're  quite  sure  it 
hasn't  velvet  portieres  as  well?  —  I  said  imme- 
diately, much  to  the  dear  lady's  disgust,  '  H'm, 
well,  Kirke  has  fallen  into  bad  habits.  Must  be 
hitting  it  up !  Does  he  explain  how  the  ground 
floor  of  this  violin  is  laid  out  and  what  sort  of 
a  curious  monster  inhabits  it?'  Your  sister 
caustically  inquired  the  meaning  of  the  classic 
phrase  '  hitting  it  up,'  and  I  explained  that  it 
meant  eating  '  loco  weed,'  a  Western  plant  that 
seriously  interferes  with  one's  organs  of 
thought." 

Kirke  arose  and  peered  into  the  hallway  to  as- 
sure himself  that  no  interested  eavesdropper 
lurked  in  the  dim  recesses,  cautiously  closed  the 
doors  cutting  off  the  hall  and  the  back  room  in 
which  there  appeared  to  be  a  temperamental 
clash  between  the  valet  and  chauffeur  based 
upon  the  relative  merits  of  England  and  Ire- 
land, and  unlocked  his  trunk.  Phil  read  the  in- 
scription upon  the  panel  of  the  violin  in  genuine 
astonishment. 

"  A     Stradivarius,    Kirke ! "    he    exclaimed, 


86  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

whistling,  "  you  didn't  mention  that  in  your  let- 
ter!" 

"  No,"  confessed  Kirke,  "  it  sounded  too  im- 
probable. I  didn't  tell  half  the  facts  " ;  and  as 
Phil  examined  the  instrument,  Kirke  related  the 
story  in  full;  the  careless  purchase  from  the 
Italian  in  America,  the  peculiar  outcome  of  his 
nap  at  the  hotel  in  Genoa,  Lauretta's  passion- 
ate outburst  proving  her  identity  as  the  ragged 
exile's  sweetheart,  Niccolo's  enigmatic  assertion, 
and  last  of  all,  the  astounding  fact  that  Dioneo 
Lamberti,  whose  name  appeared  upon  the  other 
panel,  was  a  musician  living  in  Beritola. 

"And  your  theory?"  Phil  leaned  forward  in 
his  interest.  His  habitual  frivolity  had  slipped 
from  him  like  a  discarded  cloak. 

"  That  there's  more  to  it  than  ordinary 
theft!  I'm  convinced,  of  course,  that  Pietro 
Masetto  stole  it  from  Dioneo  Lamberti,  but  — " 
he  paused  uncertainly. 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Phil,  "  the  bare  fact  that 
Pietro  Masetto  hails  from  the  same  place  as 
Signore  Lamberti  is  suspicious,  giving  all  the 
circumstances  their  due  weight,  the  inscriptions 
on  the  violin  and  Pietro's  probable  financial  in- 
ability to  purchase  the  instrument  from  its  right- 
ful owner ;  but,  had  it  occurred  to  you,  Kirke,  that 
Pietro  would  not  be  likely  to  sell  a  genuine 
Stradivarius  for  two  hundred  dollars  if  he  knew 
its  value?  It's  the  Dolphin  type,  I  notice,  and 


MR.     PHILIP    AINSWOBTH    87 

as  such  is  worth  between  five  and  ten  thou- 
sand. On  the  other  hand,  if  he  didn't  suspect 
its  unusual  nature,  he  wouldn't  be  likely  to  steal 
an  apparently  commonplace  instrument  and  de- 
mand the  price  you  paid  for  it." 

"  That's  exactly  what  has  convinced  me  that 
it's  no  commonplace  theft,"  said  Kirke  decidedly. 
"  You  remember  he  assured  me  it  was  no  '  ordi- 
naire '  violin.  Besides,  the  boy's  eyes  were  hon- 
est and  decent." 

"  And  so,"  observed  Phil  presently,  a  flash  of 
humour  in  his  eyes,  "  you  came  to  Beritola  not 
knowing  whether  Signore  Lamberti  was  alive  or 
not !  You're  a  whimsician,  old  man." 

"  What,  may  I  inquire,"  began  Kirke  with 
elaborate  courtesy,  "is  a  whimsician?" 

"  A  whimsician,"  was  the  sage  retort,  "  is  — 
er  —  frankly  speaking,  a  whimsician !  Don't 
demand  details.  Your  story  is  mighty  interest- 
ing, Kirke.  As  I  think  it  over,  however,  I'm  a 
little  inclined  to  think  that  Signore  Dioneo  may 
have  pawned  the  violin  and  Pietro  picked  it  up." 

They  talked  far  into  the  night,  the  fire  of  their 
cigars  incessantly  glowing  in  the  darkness  of  the 
little  room.  Outside,  the  valley  lay  in  a  mist 
of  moonlight,  and  Phil,  looking  at  the  circle  of 
hills  beyond  capped  with  the  glory  of  the  South- 
ern moon,  traced  the  ghostly  outline  of  their 
ridges  against  a  sky  softly  aglow  with  an  ethereal 
lunar  light,  and  grew  strangely  quiet,  feeling 


88  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

something  of  the  ardent  enthusiasm  of  the  man 
opposite  who  was  voicing  his  deep  appreciation 
of  the  starlit  valley,  of  the  long,  hot  days,  of  the 
potent  charm  of  this  impulsive  life  of  the  South, 
of  the  lure  of  the  lake  and  its  cypressed  shores ; 
but  oddly  enough,  although  Phil's  softened 
mood  had  made  him  eloquent,  he  omitted  to 
speak  of  the  tremulous  music  that  had  swept 
across  the  lake  in  the  purple  dusk,  or  of  the  girl 
who  had  paddled  across  in  the  pathway  of  the 
moon  with  a  gleaming  blade  of  silver ! 

Mr.  Ainsworth  characteristically  began  his 
first  day  in  Beritola  by  reaching  out  of  bed  in 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning  and  propelling 
one  of  Kirke's  shoes  through  the  window  at  the 
bickering  twig-gatherers,  much  to  Marietta's  de- 
light, for  it  hit  her  accursed  pecorajo.  With  a 
beautiful  stolidity  of  conscience  the  disturbed 
slumberer  fell  asleep  again  as  soon  as  their 
voices  died  away,  responding  later  in  the  morn- 
ing to  his  bedfellow's  prodding  thumb  with  an 
enigmatic  grunt. 

In  the  rear  room  a  grumbling  exchange  of 
satire,  of  which  the  words  "  race  of  blockheads  " 
was  plainly  audible  in  Riley's  taunting  voice,  re- 
ceived a  sudden  impetus  to  violence  in  the  dig- 
nified reply : 

"At  least,  Riley,  we  are  not  a  race  of  carrot 
'eads!" 


MR.    PHILIP    AINSWORTH    89 

Apprised  by  the  commotion  that  followed  that 
the  Americans  had  arisen,  Marietta,  much  to 
Kirke's  mystification,  appeared  in  the  doorway 
with  Illustrissimo's  shoe. 

"  Same  which  I  shied  at  two  human  '  dago ' 
sparrows  squabbling  under  my  window ! "  ex- 
plained Phil  imperturbably,  and  learning  the 
identity  of  the  sparrows  from  Kirke,  instantly 
proceeded  to  dilate  apologetically  in  Italian  upon 
a  peculiar  species  of  nightmare  which  period- 
ically seized  him  in  the  early  morning.  Marietta 
received  the  news  of  his  somnolent  affliction  in 
silence,  but  her  eyes  twinkled  shrewdly  and  she 
exchanged  a  glance  of  understanding  with  Kirke, 
proffering  the  remarks  with  a  grin,  that  the  shoe 
had  hit  Niccolo  in  the  back  and  he  had  gone  off 
even  forgetting  to  sing  "  Addio,  mio  caro  amore," 
in  his  furious  conviction  that  Marietta  had  dele- 
gated Manuel  to  attack  him  from  the  rear  at  the 
psychological  point  of  their  interview. 

Kirke's  mail  that  morning  contained  a  letter 
from  his  sister  which  shed  considerable  light 
upon  Phil's  sudden  arrival.  He  wisely  re- 
frained from  mentioning  it  to  his  irresponsible 
guest  whose  explanation  of  his  abrupt  depart- 
ure from  Miirren  had  not  been  particularly 
lucid.  It  ran : 


"  Frankly,  Phil  and  I  have  quarrelled.  He  left  Miirren 
in  a  terrible  rage,  telegraphing  that  dreadful  Riley  at 
Geneva,  where  he  left  his  car,  to  be  in  readiness  for  a 


90  TKAUMEKEI 

rough  trip.  He  told  mother  that  he  was  going  to  Beritola 
for,  as  he  recalled  it,  Kirke  at  least  had  an  agreeable  dis- 
position. More,  he  dashed  around  banging  doors  and  acting 
generally  as  if  he  were  a  volcano  until  Billy  Renter  good- 
naturedly  inquired,  '  What's  your  hurry,  Phil?  Anybody 
dead?'  and  the  amiable  Mr.  Ainsworth  replied  in  a  voice 
that  nearly  shrivelled  Billy  up,  '  not  yet,  but  there  probably 
will  be  before  I  leave ! '  " 

Kirke  smiled.  The  manner  of  his  chum's  de- 
parture had  been  quite  as  characteristic  as  his 
whirlwind  invasion  of  Beritola! 

Whatever  Mr.  Ainsworth's  mental  disturbance 
had  been  when  he  left  Miirren,  there  was  no  rev- 
elation of  it  in  the  days  that  followed.  He 
lazily  adapted  himself  to  the  drowsy  calm  of  the 
little  valley  and,  although  his  comments  upon 
its  beauty  were  eminently  characteristic,  Kirke 
was  astonished  at  their  undercurrent  of  gen- 
uine appreciation.  The  lure  of  the  South  occa- 
sionally revealed  the  emotional  depths  that  Mr. 
Ainsworth  so  assiduously  sought  to  conceal  be- 
neath his  habitual  mask  of  frivolity. 

Kirke  had  been  a  little  disturbed  by  his 
friend's  irresponsible  invasion.  The  daily  free- 
dom of  his  surrender  to  impulse  seemed  jeop- 
ardised by  the  presence  of  another.  The  lazy, 
dreaming  hours,  the  lake  vigils  would  all  of 
course  have  to  be  banished,  he  told  himself  dis- 
contentedly, but  it  soon  became  evident  that  Mr. 
Ainsworth  intended  to  pursue  the  even  tenor  of 
his  days  according  to  inclination,  and  expected 


MR.     PHILIP    AINSWORTH    91 

his  chum  to  do  the  same.  He  had  readily 
divined  the  charm  that  held  Kirke  enthralled, 
the  absence  of  conventional  restraint  and  the 
emotional  riot  of  his  senses  in  the  old  Nature 
worship.  And  so  the  two  men  came  to  an  in- 
stinctive understanding,  and  to  his  great  sur- 
prise Kirke  found  no  break  in  his  lazy  days. 
Phil  accepted  his  whims  without  question. 
Where  he  had  expected  a  restraint  at  which  he 
would  inwardly  chafe,  Kirkei  found  only  an  in- 
timate companionship  for  which  he  was  pro- 
foundly grateful.  I 


CHAPTER  yill 

THE  LAMBERTIS 

BERITOLA  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the 
explosive  arrival  of  the  Panhard  and  a 
second  American  when  it  found  food  for  still 
further  excitement.  Interest  this  time  centred 
upon  a  vacant  house,  the  property  of  Count 
Teodoro  di  Gomito  which  lay  perilously  aslant 
on  the  slope  of  a  mountain  near  the  Ciapellet- 
tos.  The  gables  emerged  from  a  thicket  of 
trees  like  a  Swiss  chalet;! a  wild  tangle  of  rose 
and  jasmine  climbed  over  the  porch,  and  from 
the  rear  windows  the  mountain  stretched 
steeply  upward,  seamed  by  winding  goat-paths. 
A  twisting  trail  wound  its  way  up  the  mountain- 
side to  the  cottage  door,  dwindling  there  into  a 
narrow  mule  path  that  skirted  the  rocks  to  the 
summit  I 

In  this  cottage  one  eventful  morning,  with  the 
versatile  Riley  as  cook  and  his  English  col- 
league as  housekeeper,  the  Americans  took  up 
their  abode,  Mr.  Ainsworth  aptly  christening 
the  bachelor  establishment  the  Villa  Spa  Gett. 
The  arrival  of  a  Neapolitan  furniture  van, 
flanked  by  an  admiring  cavalcade  of  peasants, 
ushered  in  a  day  of  events.  Marietta's  frenzied 

99 


THE     LAMBERTIS  93 

superintendence,  relentlessly  gibed  by  Piccolo 
in  the  character  of  spectator;  the  constant 
crowd  of  good-natured  peasants  about  the  door; 
interminable  disputes  between  the  cook  and  the 
housekeeper,  squabbling  about  the  proposed  di- 
vision of  duties;  Tony's  arrival  and  conviction 
that  the  domestic  affairs  of  the  Americans  re- 
quired his  expert  direction  (an  announcement 
which  brought  down  Marietta's  wrath  upon  his 
head  and  won  him  an  instant  backing  in  Nic- 
colo)  — the  ensuing  dispute  in  which  the  en- 
tire valley  took  sides  until  Eiley  appeared  with 
a  broom  and  cleared  them  all  off  the  premises  — 
all  this  went  to  the  making  of  a  day  of  commo- 
tion which  found  a  dramatic  climax  late  that 
afternoon. 

Quiet  had  settled  over  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  with 
the  final  departure  of  Marietta.  Kirke,  com- 
fortably smoking  his  pipe  on  the  porch  in  the 
shelter  of  the  crimson  rambler,  looked  down  over 
the  valley  stretched  at  his  feet  with  a  sigh  of 
content.  The  tiled  roofs  below  deflected  the 
afternoon  sun  in  dazzling  sheets  of  light.  From 
his  elevation  the  American  caught/ the  glimmer 
of  the  lake  darkly  outlined  in  cypress,  of  the 
chapel  cross  flashing  gold,  of  the  old  villa  hedged 
in  crimson. ;  From  the  ensemble  of  the  landscape 
a  figure  detached  itself,  striding  rapidly  toward 
him.  It  climbed  the  mountain  road  to  the  Villa 
Spa  Gett,  and  presently  resolved  itself  into  the 


94  TRAUMEREI 

semblance  of  Philip  Ainsworth,  flushed  and  ex- 
cited. 

"  I'm  the  only  individual  with  brains  and  tact 
in  this  valley ! "  he  announced  as  he  seated  him- 
self. 

"  And  modesty,"  prompted  Kirke.  "  You 
omitted  that ! " 

"  I've  just  been  talking  to  the  estimable  Lam- 
berti !  "  exploded  the  valley's  sole  representative 
of  brains  and  tact,  mopping  his  forehead,  "  Sig- 
nore  Dioneo  Lambert!  himself !  " 

Kirke  stared  incredulously. 

"  If  you'll  just  stop  talking/'  grinned  Phil, 
"and  gently  intimate  to  those  dark  and  melan- 
choly orbs  of  yours  that  their  stare  is  becoming 
embarrassing,  I  won't  mind  telling  you  how  I 
did  it.  I  casually  wandered  by  the  villa,  an  in- 
quisitive habit  caught  from  you,  and  quite  as 
casually  looked  in.  A  tall  man  with  a  mass  of 
snow  white  hair  and  a  pair  of  the  blackest  eyes 
and  eyebrows  I  have  ever  seen  was  clipping 
roses  at  the  side  by  that  queer  looking  old  well. 
I  immediately  decided  that  it  must  be  the  mys- 
terious Lamberti  himself.  So  without  any  false 
delicacy  I  promptly  stepped  over  the  hedge  of 
fire  as  you  so  poetically  call  it  —  without  burn- 
ing my  trousers  by  the  way  —  and  inquired  if  I 
could  have  a  drink.  I  explained  that  the  well 
with  its  quaint  lattice  and  moss  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  picturesque  fixings  looked  very  inviting 


THE     LAMBERTIS  95 

to  a  thirsty  man.  Now,  see  here,  Kirke,  I  was 
thirsty.  That  smile  of  yours  is  an  insult  to  my 
veracity.  He  assented  very  courteously  —  he's 
one  of  those  graceful,  old-fashioned  chaps  — 
and  while  I  was  drinking  I  explained  my  life's 
history  in  my  best  Italian.  You  needn't  grin! 
It  may  be  unique  in  spots,  but  it  gets  there  just 
the  same.  Well,  I  consumed  a  couple  of  gallons 
of  water  cudgelling  my  brain  for  some  Italian 
who  might  serve  as  a  mutual  acquaintance,  and 
Signore  Lamberti  began  to  look  apprehensive 
for  the  various  buttons  of  my  attire,  when,  quite 
suddenly,  Abbato  flashed  into  my  mind.  I  won- 
der now  that  I  hadn't  thought  of  him  before. 
Remember?  He  was  the  Italian  ambassador  in 
Washington  when  the  governor  was  in  the  Sen- 
ate. They  were  great  friends.  I  stated  the  fact 
casually  and  the  Lamberti  promptly  fell  upon 
my  neck  and  wept.  That  may  be  slightly  exag- 
gerated. At  any  rate,  he  straightened  up,  ex- 
tended his  hand  with  a  courtly  r'r  that  made  me 
look  around  to  see  if  my  prime  minister  and 
retinue  of  slaves  were  anywhere  in  sight,  and 
informed  me  in  the  most  cordial  fashion  that  any 
friend  of  Signore  Abbato's  was  most  certainly 
a  friend  of  his.  They 're  I  cousins,  besides  being 
the  dearest  of  friends  !A^  We're  invited  to  break 
bread  with  the  gentleman  to-night,  and  after  the 
exertions  of  the  day  I  feel  that  I  can  break  a 
great  deal.  Seriously,  Kirke,"  Phil  grew  sud- 


96  TRAUMEEEI 

denly  thoughtful,  "  he's  the  most  magnetic  old 
chap  I  ever  met  and  his  personality  somehow 
fairly  fascinated  me.  He  elevated  me  so  much 
in  my  own  estimation  that  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  going  to-night  attired  in  a  Roman  toga  with 
Riley  in  similar  costume  following  me  as  my 
trusted  freedman,  but  unfortunately  Riley's  gen- 
eral physique  isn't  in  keeping  with  the  garb  of 
Rome ! " 

'A  glorious  panoply  of  colour  lay  ahead  of 
them  as  they  descended  the  mountain  road  at 
sunset.  The  sky  behind  the  castle  was  vividly 
banded  in  topaz.  Long,  glittering  spears  of 
light  lay  athwart  the  valley  as  the  Sun  King 
couched  his  golden  lances  against  a  terrible 
armour  of  fire.  In  the  fiery  halo  of  the  sunset 
the  rolling  vapour  above  Vesuvius  was  but 
faintly  discernible. 

To  Kirke,  as  he  viewed  the  landscape  arched  by 
a  vault  of  tropical  splendour  and  barricaded 
upon  all  sides  by  serrated  ridges  afire  with  the 
last  light  of  the  day,  the  very  atmosphere  of  the 
valley  was  laden  with  mediae val  romance.*  The 
prospect  of  talking  with  the  man  whose  ances- 
tor's name  lay  written  above  his  own  upon  the 
panel  of  the  Stradivarius  had  awakened  a  fire 
of  excitement  within  him  that  he  sought  in  vain 
to  control.  In  mental  panorama  a  stately  cav- 
alcade filed  through  his  mind,  peopling  the  val- 


THE    LAMBERTIS  97 

ley  with  a  throng  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  at  the 
head  rode  an  old  Italian  with  burning  eyes  and 
the  frost  of  life's  winter  upon  his  head,  bear- 
ing aloft  in  harmonious  accoutrement  an  old 
violin  —  himself  as  fitting  a  denizen  of  the 
chivalrous  age  gone  by  as  the  shadowy  ranks 
he  marshalled. 

The  blazing  line  of  the  geranium  hedge  re- 
called the  present,  and  in  silence  the  two  Ameri- 
cans walked  up  the  gravel  to  the  old  villa.  Phil 
clanged  the  quaint  brass  knocker,  and  as  it  left 
his  hand,  Kirke  noticed  that  it  was  a  bronze  re- 
production of  Michelangelo's  grinning  mask  of 
a  Satyr.  It  somehow  hinted  of  the  Italian's 
patriotism  and  loyalty. 

The  door  swung  back,  and  Dioneo  Lamberti 
himself  appeared  upon  the  threshold.  Kirke 
thrilled  in  response  to  the  magnetic  appeal  of 
the  man  before  him.  He  was  tall  —  taller  than 
Phil  —  his  physique  attesting  a  wiry  strength 
and  powerful  nerve  force.  A  pair  of  great  black 
eyes,  which,  deeply  set  beneath  heavy  brows  and 
lashes  of  jet,1  burned  with  the  mysterious  fires  of 
the  dreamer,!  and  a  waving  abundance  of  snow- 
white  hair,  bearing  in  it  at  times  a  glint  of 
silver,  offered  a  contrast  which  Kirke  at  first 
found  a  little  startling.  There  was  pride  and 
dignity  in  the  fine  old  face,  but  the  mouth  looked 
a  little  tired  and  sad.  In  his  erect  carriage,  both 
graceful  and  impressive  in  spite  of  a  certain  sug- 


98  TRAUMEREI 

gestion  of  rigidity,  the  American  recognised  the 
inflexible  demeanour  of  the  mature  man  who 
takes  a  covert  pride  in  the  mastery  of  his  sinews. 

"  Favor isca! "  he  said  with  quiet  courtesy, 
holding  the  door  open  for  his  guests,  and  there 
was  a  genuine  hospitality  in  his  manner  and  a 
rare  old-fashioned  courtliness  that  Kirke  found 
irresistible. 

"  Ah,  Signore  Ainsworth,"  he  added,  extending 
his  hand  with  a  smile  as  the  two  Americans 
paused  beside  him,  "  and  you,  Signore  Bentley, 
I  am  indeed  glad  to  meet  you !  It  is  a  curious 
world.  I  little  suspected  that  I  should  one  day 
have  the  pleasure  of  entertaining  those  who  hon- 
oured my  cousin  with  generous  hospitality  in  a 
distant  land."  He  turned  again  to  Kirke. 
"  Signore  Ainsworth  has  of  course  mentioned 
our  mutual  acquaintance,  Benedetto  Abbato, 
my  cousin  and  friend?  "  His  dark  eyes  gleamed 
humorously.  "An  enthusiastic  fellow!  He 
is  in  a  perpetual  state  of  effervescence.  From 
his  bubbling  descriptions,  I  imagine  he  regards 
Signore  Philip  Ainsworth,  Sr.,  as  his  patron 
saint.1' 

"  I'm  sorry  not  to  have  met  him !  "  said  Kirke, 
genuine  regret  in  his  voice. 

"  Signore  Ainsworth  tells  me,"  the  Italian  re- 
garded his  informant  with  a  smile,  "  that  during 
my  cousin's  ambassadorship  you  were  endeavour- 
ing to  '  change  the  map  of  Africa ! '"  He  quoted 


THE     LAMBERTIS  99 

Phil  with  a  flash  of  humour,  adding,  "  I  trust 
you  have  no  such  linear  designs  upon  our  little 
valley ! " 

"  None !  "  laughed  Kirke.  "  I  had  no  idea," 
he  offered  gravely,  "that  the  world  contained 
such  a  wonderfully  lovely  spot." 

"  Few  visitors  come  to  Beritola,"  observed  the 
Italian,  "but  I  myself  think  it  is  well  worth  a 
visit.  It  is  of  course  rather  inaccessible,  but 
as  a  little  Italian  proverb  of  ours  runs,)'  J£o  Ijill, 
no  valley ! '  It  is,  I  think,  true  of  all  things  in 
life,"  he  concluded  thoughtfully.  \ 

He  turned  and  led  the  way  through  a  wide- 
old-fashioned  hall  to  a  rear  room  overlooking  the 
garden.  The  windows  were  open  and  (through 
the  casements  the  scent  of  roses  stole  in  from  the 
nodding  bushes,  still  warmly  aglow  in  the 
brightness  of  the  sunset.)  Below  a  mantel  of 
black  walnut,  whose  sombreness  was  relieved  by 
the  antique  candlesticks  of  brass  on  either  end, 
yawned  a  great  fireplace,  and  once  more  Kirke 
thrilled  at  the  artistic  loyalty  of  the  old  Italian, 
for  the  andirons  that  flanked  it  were  bronze 
images  of  the  Winged  Mercury  of  John  of 
Bologna  facing  each  other  in  restless  flight. 

Above  the  mantel  hung  a  picture  of  Michel- 
angelo's David,  the  youthful  body  in  nude 
strength  and  grace  facing  on  the  opposite  wall 
the  full  maturity  of  Lorenzo  di  Medici  brooding 
in  the  shadow  of  his  helmet  over  the  Titanic 


100  TRAUMEREI 

figures  of  Night  and  Morning  with  which  Michel- 
angelo had  adorned  his  tomb.  In  silence  Kirke 
turned  to  the  latter.  It  held  for  him  in  the 
grave  beauty  of  the  warrior's  shadowed  face  the 
charm  of  sanctity.  Its  powerful  appeal  to-day, 
as  always,  moved  him  strangely.  The  old 
Italian  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant.  He  looked 
keenly  at  the  American's  face  and  nodded 
quietly. 

"  You  are  right ! "  he  said  abruptly.  "  It's  like 
no  other  in  all  the  world !  "  There  was  the  in- 
effable reverence  in  his  voice  of  a  venerator  at 
the  shrine  of  something  holy.  Kirke  felt  that 
in  that  instant  the  dreamer  had  bared  his  very 
soul  and  that  in  spirit  they  two  had  bowed  in 
tribute  to  the  mighty  genius  of  the  Renaissance. 

In  the  old  rose  garden  outside  the  window,  a 
laughing  voice  broke  the  silence.  Kirke  wheeled 
in  startled  interest.  In  the  wilderness  of  colour 
beyond  the  casement  stood  a  girl  laden  with 
roses.  Niccolo,  busily  clipping  more  in  spite  of 
her  protests,  had  heaped  them  in  her  arms  until 
they  brushed  her  cheek  and  showered  down  in  a 
tangled  cascade  against  the  white  of  her  gown. 
Purple  shadows  lurked  in  her  hair  and  the  deli- 
cate colour  of  her  cheek  rivalled  the  rose  that 
brushed  against  it! 

From  the  American's  startled  eyes  the  rose 
garden  vanished  and  he  saw  again  a  canoe  rock- 
ing in  a  trail  of  moonlight.  So  vividly  came  the 


THE     LAMBERTIS  101 

recollection  that  he  saw  for  an  instant  the  pul- 
sating glow  of  the  fireflies  in  the  gloom  of  the 
further  shore  and  Nocturnia  lightly  mocked  him 
as  she  paddled  away.  The  mist  of  moonlight 
about  her  figure  whimsically  fashioned  itself  into 
a  shower  of  roses  as  Marietta's  words,  "  the  Sig- 
norina  Beatrice  will  be  home  this  week.  Our 
padrone  at  the  villa  has  said  it ! "  flashed  back 
in  bewildering  revelation. 

Signore  Lamberti,  unconscious  of  his  guest's 
disturbance,  had  turned  to  Phil  with  a  courteous 
query.  Now  he  led  the  way  through  a  door  at 
the  side  of  the  room  to  a  shaded  portico,  present- 
ing the  Americans  to  the  solitary  occupant  with 
a  stately,  old-fashioned  bow. 

"  My  sister,  gentlemen,"  he  said  quietly,  "  the 
Signorina  Emilia." 

"  The  Signorina  Emilia !  "  Philip  Ainsworth 
instantly  caught  the  winsome  charm  of  the  dear 
old  dreamer  rocking  gaily  back  and  forth  in  the 
shadow  of  the  portico.  The  moonlight  of  the 
even-tide  of  life  lay  in  silvery  radiance  upon  her 
dainty  head,  diffusing  its  brightness  all  about 
her  in  caressing  protection  of  the  eternal  youth 
within  her,  seeming  indeed  to  shield  her  from 
the  ravages  of  Father  Time  who  had  grimly  piled 
up  eighty-one  years  at  her  tiny  feet  and  fled  at 
the  laugh  with  which  she  received  them.  Kirke, 
alert  for  the  sound  of  footsteps,  had  given  her 
but  a  swift  glance  of  reverent  admiration,  but 


102  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

Phil,  in  a  curious  wave  of  tenderness,  saw  a  frail 
little  lady  crowned  in  a  mass  of  silvery  hair; 
a  face  delicately  patrician;  eyes,  deep  and  dark 
and  soft!  There  was  the  same  vivid  contrast 
in  eyes  and  brows  and  hair  that  had  so  fasci- 
nated Phil  in  her  brother.  How  beautifully  the 
winds  of  the  passing  years  had  drifted  the  snows 
of  life's  winter! 

The  fire  that  burned  in  her  dark  eyes  hinted 
something  of  the  electric  vitality  within  her.  A 
great  Neapolitan  doctor  had  once  remarked  that 
her  body  was  a  storehouse  of  nervous  energy 
kept  in  order  by  a  will  power  almost  super- 
human, and  that  some  day  the  frail  structure 
would  collapse  without  warning. 

"  What  a  wonderful  little  lady ! "  thought 
Phil,  his  eyes  softening.  "  The  sable  of  her 
dress  matches  her  eyes  and  the  kerchief  her 
hair!  She  should  always  wear  black  silk  with 
a  bit  of  white  lace  at  her  throat  and  always  a 
cameo  to  fasten  it!  It  suits  her  exactly." 

He  learned  later  that  she  always  did.  For 
twenty  years  in  whimsical  obedience  to  a  de- 
lightful bit  of  vanity  that  had  taught  her  the  ar- 
tistic value  of  the  contrast,  she  had  worn  but 
one  style  of  gown,  a  soft  silk  as  black  and  lus- 
trous as  her  eyes,  quaintly  cut  in  the  fashion  of 
another  time.  It  fell  about  her  figure  in  trail- 
ing folds,  set  off  at  the  throat  by  a  snowy  ker- 
chief caught  with  a  cameo  rimmed  in  gold. 


THE    LAMBERTIS  103 

"  My  dear,"  she  would  explain  with  a  bewitch- 
ing nod  of  her  head,  "  I  have  a  little  inheritance, 
just  enough  to  keep  me  in  black  silk  dresses  and 
lace  kerchiefs.  No  more,"  with  a  winsome  flash 
in  her  dark  eyes,  "but  then,  I  don't  need  any 
more! " 

Phil,  fascinated  by  her  charm,  swiftly  crossed 
to  the  old  sister  nodding  brightly  in  response  to 
her  brother's  presentation.  Emboldened  by  the 
friendly  light  in  her  eyes,  he  quietly  readjusted 
her  head-rest  with  a  laughing  remark  and  seated 
himself  beside  her. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed  naively,  patting 
his  hand  with  an  impulsiveness  that  was  charac- 
teristic, "  your  Italian  is  execrable !  " 

Phil  with  the  wryest  of  faces  agreed,  and  the 
laugh  that  followed  smoothed  away  the  restraint 
of  formality. 

There  was  a  light  footfall  and  a  flutter  of 
white  in  the  doorway.  Instantly  Signore  Lam- 
berti  was  upon  his  feet,  presenting  the  two 
Americans  to  the  girl  who  had  just  entered  the 
portico,  and  bowing  with  the  courtly  deference 
of  a  royal  chamberlain. 

"  Ah,  daughter,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  have  been 
listening  for  you !  " 

Kirke  faced  the  girl  and  gravely  bowed  his  ac- 
knowledgment, alert  for  some  sign  of  recogni- 
tion in  her  face,  but  the  eyes  that  met  his  were 
calmly  inscrutable.  Once  the  American  fancied 


104  TRAUMEREI 

he  caught  a  glimmer  of  amusement  beneath  the 
long  lashes.  It  was  instantly  lost,  however,  in 
the  demure  dignity  with  which  she  received  him. 
Kirke  found  it  very  difficult  to  reconcile  his 
memory  of  Nocturnia  or  the  wilful  nymph  who 
had  scribbled  the  sarcastic  message  and  posted 
it  upon  the  ilex  bough,  with  this  girl  before  him, 
welcoming  them  both  with  graceful  impartiality. 
Verily  her  moods  were  as  many  as  the  varying 
expressions  in  her  dark  eyes. 

Kirke  never  forgot  the  supper  that  followed 
—  the  first  of  many  in  the  old  Lamberti  villa: 
the  quaint  old  silver  and  china  upon  the  snowy 
cloth;  the  old-fashioned  room  with  its  high- 
backed  chairs  of  walnut  richly  carved  and  in- 
laid like  the  mantel ;  the  rose-glow  of  the  antique 
candlesticks,  illumining  the  dark  face  of  the 
handsome,  white-haired  Italian,  punctiliously 
attentive  to  his  sister,  his  daughter  and  his 
guests;  of  the  Signorina  Emilia,  Kirke  had  not 
remained  indifferent  to  her  winsome  charm  for 
long;  and  of  Beatrice,  a  daintily  competent 
hostess  whose  profile  tantalised  him  with  mem- 
ories of  the  lake  as  she  bent  over  the  silver  tea 
urn,  as  gracefully  at  her  ease  in  pouring  the 
steaming  amber  into  the  cups  before  her  as  she 
had  been  in  paddling  across  the  moonlit  water 
or  in  improvising  the  organ  melody  that  had 
swept  mystically  across  the  lake.  If  anything 
had  been  needed  to  complete  the  picture,  Kirke 


THE     LAMBEETIS 

told  himself,  it  found  its  final  perfection  in 
Lauretta,  appearing  from  time  to  time  to  serve 
the  supper,  the  burnished  gold  of  her  hair  flash- 
ing from  beneath  a  coquettish  cap,  her  eyes 
shining  with  excitement  at  this  sudden  friend- 
ship of  all  of  Marietta's  boasted  proteges. 

"  Lauretta  is  very  much  interested  in  the 
American  Signori !  "  observed  Beatrice,  her  eyes 
meeting  Kirke's  with  impenetrable  gravity. 

"  Ah !  "  murmured  the  American  cryptically, 
"then  Nereids  are  not  omniscient!  A  certain 
mystery  is  solved  and  a  Goblin  disillusioned !  " 

The  girl  coloured,  fencing  adroitly,  however, 
with  a  quick  question  in  English.  Signore  Lam- 
berti  looked  up  and  smiled  at  the  surprise  in  the 
American's  face. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  explained  pleasantly,  "  daugh- 
ter and  I  have  waged  many  a  war  with  your  ex- 
cellent English ! " 

It  was  evident  that  the  little  family  was  one 
of  unusual  culture.  The  American  saw  its  im- 
print in  the  tasteful  surroundings,  in  the  books 
and  pictures  that  lined  the  walls,  in  the  old 
Italian's  curious  adaptation  of  sculptured  forms 
manifested  again  in  the  candelabra  upon  the 
table.  The  cluster  of  lights  branched  from  the 
hand  of  a  miniature  Apollo  Belvedere,  and  the 
rose  shades  bore  sketches  of  Beritola  in  water 
colour  to  whose  execution  the  old  Signorina  con- 
fessed with  a  laugh  of  deprecation. 


106  TEAUMEREI 

Phil  had  fallen  into  a  merry  discussion  with 
the  old  sister;  Signore  Lam-berti  toyed  with  his 
fork  in  a  fleeting  moment  of  preoccupation  and 
Kirke  turned  again  to  Beatrice.  Her  eyes 
flashed  humorously. 

"  You  must  tell  us  about  your  wonderful 
America,"  she  said  swiftly,  checking  the  words 
upon  his  lips  in  tantalising  anticipation  of  their 
reference,  "  Signore  Abbato  is  very  fervent  in 
his  admiration ! " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  averred  Kirke  seriously,  "  that 
your  wonderful  Italy  has  woven  a  spell  about  me. 
Everything  else  seems  remote." 

Signore  Lamberti  suddenly  roused  from  his 
revery  and  turned  to  Kirke,  his  eyes  glowing. 
The  fire  of  a  proud  patriotism  had  softened  the 
lines  of  weariness  about  his  mouth. 

"  Ah !  Italia  adorata! "  he  said  dreamily,  "  you 
are  right,  Signore  Bentley.  It  weaves  a  won- 
drous spell.  There  is  no  other  country  like  it  in 
all  the  world.  It  is  the  cradle  of  the  arts,  the 
chosen  home  of  the  Muses.  There  is  creative 
power  in  every  fibre  of  her  being,  a  glorious, 
passionate  expression  of  her  inner  fire.  Some- 
times I  think  over  the  quota  of  great  men  that 
Italy  has  given  the  world  and  I  say, i  Verily,  in- 
deed has  she  been  God's  chosen  country ! '  Art- 
ists, poets,  sculptors,  musicians;  what  other 
country  can  flaunt  such  a  glittering  army  of 
genius?  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  it  is  all  past 


THE     LAMBEKTIS  107 

grandeur.  Some  day,  however,  Italy  will  again 
startle  the  world  with  a  new  expression  of  her 
divine  creative  fire  in  another  quota  of  such  men 
as  Michelangelo,  Dante,  Tasso,  Ariosto, 
Petrarch,  Raphael,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Dona- 
tello,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
Guido  Reni,  Boccaccio  — "  he  paused  for  an  in- 
stant in  breathless  ecstasy,  "  what  need  to  men- 
tion Ghiberti,  Giotto,  Fra  Bartolommeo,  Fra 
Angelico,  Cimabue,  or  the  powerful  men  in  dif- 
ferent lines  such  as  Guicciardini,  Galileo,  Bru- 
nelleschi,  Machiavelli,  Savonarola,"  he  threw 
his  hands  out  with  an  expressive  gesture. 
"  Ah !  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  'tis  impossible 
to  name  them  all.  A  complete  roll  call  would 
engirdle  the  earth !  " 

He  called  Lauretta  and  gave  a  few  rapid  di- 
rections. She  hurried  away,  bearing  upon  her 
return  a  fiascone  of  wine.  The  Italian  himself 
poured  the  sparkling  liquor  into  a  row  of  gob- 
lets. 

"A  wine  made  by  my  ancestors  many  years 
ago,"  he  explained  simply ;  then  raising  his  glass 
with  a  proud  gesture  he  offered  reverently : 

"  Italia  adorato,  amid! " 

In  silence  they  rose  and  drank  the  toast,  Kirke 
thrilling  at  the  ardent  patriotism  of  the  man  be- 
fore him. 

"  To  your  health ! "  added  the  Italian  cour- 
teously, bowing  to  the  Americans. 


108  TRAUMEREI 

"  To  yours,  sir !  "  offered  Kirke,  raising  his 
glass.  He  spoke  quietly,  but  his  pulse  was  leap- 
ing in  response  to  the  powerful  appeal  of  the 
Italian's  magnetism. 

"  You  forgot  Camillo  Lamberti  in  your  roll 
call  of  genius ! "  declared  Aunt  Emilia  proudly, 
as  they  seated  themselves. 

"  My  own  ancestor,"  the  musician  explained  to 
Kirke  who  had  instantly  recognised  the  name, 
"  a  famous  musician  of  the  eighteenth  century." 

"  To  say  nothing  of  Amerigo  Vespucci  and 
Cristoforo  Colombo,"  put  in  Phil  reproachfully, 
"to  whose  indefatigable  efforts  is  largely  due 
our  presence  here  to-night !  " 

"  We  have  a  great  deal  in  our  past  of  which 
we  may  be  very  proud,"  explained  the  old  Sig- 
norina  as  the  laugh  at  Phil's  statement  subsided. 
"  They  were  wonderful  days,"  she  added  dream- 
ily, "  wonderful  days !  "  and  in  very  truth  the 
little  lady  lived  and  had  her  being  in  the  past 
infinitely  more  than  in  the  present,  thinking, 
speaking  and  dreaming  of  its  grandeur. 

"  Many  people  say  we  Lambertis  are  a  re- 
markable family,"  she  said  to  Phil,  with  a  proud 
toss  of  her  snowy  head,  "  a  race  of  handsome  men 
and  beautiful  women.  In  my  own  girlhood  I, 
too,  was  beautiful  like  Niece  Beatrice ! "  And 
Phil,  looking  at  the  delicate  curve  of  face  and 
throat,  thought  of  a  fading  rose-leaf  tipped  with 
frost  and  could  well  believe  it !  "  Even  to- 


109 

day,"  she  went  on,  patting  her  abundant  hair 
softly  with  a  quaint  egotism  that  was  character- 
istic of  her  but  never  displeasing,  "  I  have  an 
unusual  head  of  hair  for  one  of  my  age.  It  is 
still  thick  and  long." 

"And  beautifully  silver!"  whispered  Phil. 

The  old  Signorina  laughed  with  pleasure  and 
patted  his  hand. 

"  You  know  just  how  to  please  an  old  lady," 
she  said  wistfully,  "  an  old  lady  who  pines  for 
the  flattery  of  her  girlhood." 

What  a  dear  old  dreamer  she  was!  proud  of 
her  family,  proud  of  her  girlhood  beauty,  and 
proud  of  her  beloved  Italy.  Phil  had  watched 
her  rise  to  the  toast  of  "  Italia  adorata,"  her 
slight  figure  quivering  proudly  as  she  touched 
her  lips  to  the  wine  with  delicate  grace.  The 
man  at  her  side  marvelled  as  she  talked  at  the 
wealth  of  incident  her  mind  had  treasured  from 
the  sinking  ship  of  the  Past.  Her  mind  was  like 
an  old-fashioned  trunk  filled  to  overflowing  with 
a  multitude  of  silken  robes  and  priceless  laces, 
all  belonging  to  the  past  and  all  unspeakably 
lovely!  She  seemed  to  caress  each  one  with 
reverent  fingers  as  she  brought  it  forth,  wist- 
fully eager  for  admiration,  shaking  a  shower  of 
faded  rose-petals  from  the  folds  of  rare  brocade 
packed  away  in  the  blossoms  of  memory,  f  There 
were  no  shadows  in  her  cherished  hoard.  Care- 
fully she  had  put  aside  the  memory  of  the  storms 


110  TRAUMEREI 

the  Ship  of  the  Past  had  weathered  and  dream- 
ily conned  over  and  over  the  recollection  of  the 
silvered  strands  of  the  Enchanted  Isles  that  her 
barque  had  touched  as  it  floated  along  on  the 
Sea  of  Years  to  the  Harbour  of  Eternity.  I  Phil 
drew  her  on  and  on,  questioning,  commenting, 
praising,  until  a  faint  flush  like  the  glow  of 
coral  crept  over  the  soft  wrinkled  cheeks.  Sig- 
nore  Lamberti  watched  the  two  heads  bobbing 
together  as  they  talked  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  You  too  are  a  musician,  Signore  Bentley," 
he  said  abruptly,  turning  to  Kirke.  "  Your 
friend  spoke  of  it." 

"  A  lover  of  music !  "  corrected  Kirke  gravely. 
"  A  dilettante,  I  fear,  on  a  few  instruments." 

"And  those?" 

"  Piano,  guitar,  and  violin."  He  halted  im- 
perceptibly before  the  final  word,  finding  it  a  lit- 
tle difficult  to  utter. 

"You  will  play  for  us?"  questioned  the  Ital- 
ian quickly.  "  We  Lambertis  are  a  race  of 
music-lovers." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  leading  the  way  to  a  room 
at  the  side.  With  a  courteous  gesture  he  mo- 
tioned his  guest  to  the  piano,  an  old-fashioned 
instrument  flanked  by  busts  of  Verdi  and  Luigi 
Cherubini.  The  light  fell  full  upon  the  wall 
behind  it,  illuminating  a  picture  which  the 
American  faced  in  startled  interest.  It  was  the 
picture  of  a  tall  man  with  blazing  eyes  and  snow- 


THE     LAMBERTIS  111 

white  hair,  his  chin  resting  upon  a  violin  above 
which  he  held  the  bow  poised  in  his  slender 
hand.  The  eyes  looked  far  beyond,  glimpsing 
the  unseen  forces  from  which  the  player  drew  his 
inspiration.  Kirke  had  thought  it  a  painting 
of  Signore  Lamberti  himself.  As  he  traced  the 
details,  however,  he  became  conscious  of  a  dif- 
ference, vague  and  elusive,  but  undeniable. 

The  violin?  In  spite  of  his  original  sus- 
picion, he  now  saw  that  it  was  not  the  one  that 
lay  hidden  away  in  his  own  trunk  and  the  dis- 
covery was  a  little  disappointing.  There  was  a 
powerful  contrast  of  light  and  shadow  in  the 
picture  —  a  daring  fulfilment  of  the  suggestion 
in  the  eyes  and  hair,  painfully  intense  in  its  final 
effect.  The  American  forgot  its  suggestion  of 
his  own  errand  in  his  admiration  for  the  fault- 
less execution.  The  masterful  stroke  of  genius 
had  conveyed  in  it  an  irresistible  sense  of  sound 
and  motion.  The  poised  bow  seemed  momen- 
tarily ready  to  strike  the  strings  in  a  wail  of 
melody ;  the  mystic  fire  in  the  eyes  seemed  alive, 
passionately  proclaiming  the  surrender  of  the 
body  to  the  spiritual  expression  of  an  inner 
music.  A  small  cross  of  gold  gleamed  in  the 
corner  above  a  scrawling  signature. 

"  My  ancestor,  Oamillo  Lamberti !  "  explained 
the  Italian  quietly.  "  My  sister  spoke  of  him  a 
while  ago." 

"And  the  artist?" 


112  TRAUMEREI 

"  Niccolo  Lamberti,  his  brother." 

The  American  longed  to  ask  why  the  man 
whose  powerful  genius  was  evident  in  the  pic- 
ture before  him  had  not  made  his  influence  felt 
throughout  the  world  of  art.  Something  pecul- 
iar in  the  old  Italian's  tone,  however,  restrained 
him.  In  silence  he  seated  himself  at  the  piano 
facing  the  picture  of  the  man  whose  name  was 
inscribed  upon  the  panel  of  the  Stradivarius. 

Idly,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  rapt  musician  of 
another  century,  he  improvised  a  melody  that 
drifted  of  its  own  accord  into  the  Traumerei. 
As  the  melody  sang  itself  from  beneath  his  fin- 
gers, it  brought  with  it  the  memory  of  Pietro 
watching  him  with  mournful  eyes  as  he  played 
it  once  before  on  the  strings  of  the  Stradivarius, 
and  of  another  night  when  Beatrice  Lamberti 
had  played  it  upon  the  chapel  organ  in  the  twi- 
light. The  singing  harmony  had  become  ir- 
resistibly woven  into  the  thread  of  his  life. 

Softly  he  played  it  to  the  end,  instilling  into  it 
something  of  himself  —  of  his  passionate  love 
for  the  music  with  which  Nature  had  so  lav- 
ishly endowed  him  —  and  something  of  the  mem- 
ories it  evoked.  Through  the  arch  of  the  door- 
way beyond  he  could  see  Beatrice  still  sitting  at 
the  little  supper  table  with  her  chin  resting 
thoughtfully  upon  her  hand.  The  glow  of  the 
candle-light  flashed  along  the  silver  and  il- 
lumined her  face.  As  the  final  note  died  away 


THE     LAMBEETIS  113 

she  looked  up.  There  was  no  mockery  in  her 
eyes  now ;  a  generous  tribute  of  appreciation  lay 
in  their  depths,  annihilating  the  barrier  of  sex 
to  meet  him  on  a  common  ground  of  vibrant 
sympathy. 

Signore  Lamberti  had  listened  in  perfect  si- 
lence, his  eyes  alight. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said  dreamily,  "  Schumann ! 
Beautiful,  beautiful.  But  few  can  play  it  so! 
On  the  violin,  too,  it  is  my  favourite  melody." 

"  And  mine !  "  agreed  Kirke  quietly. 

Through  the  open  window  floated  the  sound 
of  a  peasant's  voice  plaintively  singing  the 
Miserere.  Signore  Lamberti  smiled. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  suggested,  "  that  you  have 
already  noticed  the  innate  musical  talent  in 
these  valley  peasants?  Melody  seems  born  in  an 
Italian." 

"  I  have,  indeed !  "  agreed  Kirke.  "  Frankly 
it  has  been  a  source  of  wonder  to  me.  Each  one 
of  them  appears  to  know  11  Trovatore  from  be- 
ginning to  end." 

"Ah!  Every  Italian  can  sing  the  Trova- 
tore! "  Dioneo's  eyes  flashed.  "  I  was  thinking 
particularly  when  I  spoke  of  an  idle,  lazy  fel- 
low here  in  Beritola  —  a  dreamer  who  loved 
nothing  so  much  as  his  music.  It  had  been  born 
in  him,  first  finding  expression  on  an  accordion 
and  later  on  an  old  violin  that  someone  gave 
him.  He  used  to  lie  around  on  the  mountain- 


114  TRAUMEREI 

side  playing,  and  sometimes  the  music  that 
floated  down  from  the  hills  in  the  twilight  was 
astonishing.  He  rarely  worked,  eking  out  an 
erratic  existence  with  his  fiddle.  Finally  I 
grew  so  interested  in  him  that  I  brought  him 
here  to  the  villa  and  taught  him  the  necessary 
technique.  Ah!  Signore  Bentley,  I  wish  you 
could  have  heard  the  lad  play.  It  was  indeed 
marvellous." 

"  He  is  still  in  Beritola?  "  questioned  Kirke. 

"No.  He  left  here  months  ago.  He  was 
Lauretta's  sweetheart,  you  may  have  heard  of 
him  in  the  valley  —  Pietro  Masetto." 

Kirke's  grasp  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair  tight- 
ened. Quickly  he  scanned  the  speaker's  face, 
astonished  at  the  friendly  interest  in  his  voice. 
There  was  no  hint  of  suspicion  in  the  tranquil 
tones.  Signore  LambertP s  face  glowed  with  the 
pleasure  of  his  share  in  Pietro's  attainment. 
Surely,  thought  the  American,  if  he  had  suspected 
his  protege"  of  theft,  some  faint  indication  of  it 
would  have  been  revealed  in  his  manner! 

"  His  gratitude  was  indeed  pitiful !  "  went 
on  the  Italian,  his  face  softening ;  "  he  would  kiss 
my  hand  and  say,  l  Ah,  Signore  Lamberti,  I  had 
a  feeling,  a  great  feeling  in  my  soul,  it  was 
walled  up  here,'  striking  his  breast  fiercely, 
'  like  a  flood,  something  that  begged  to  come  out 
and  I  knew  not  how.  You  have  opened  the 
gate ! ' " 


THE     L  A  M  B  E  R  T  I  S  115 

Beatrice  had  entered  quietly  while  he  spoke. 
Now  she  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair  and  Kirke 
fancied  he  caught  a  flash  of  resentment  in  her 
dark  eyes.  A  faint  wave  of  colour  swept  over 
her  face  and  she  fingered  the  lace  about  her 
throat  a  little  nervously. 

"  And  so  it  is  settled,"  the  old  Signorina  was 
saying  to  Philip  —  in  the  brief  lull  her  cheerful 
voice  could  be  heard  distinctly  — "  we  shall  study 
Italian  together  and  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
correct  that  dreadful  accent.  You  will  come 
to-morrow?  " 

"  Yes.    And  I  shall  teach  you  English." 

The  door  from  the  hallway  softly  opened  and 
Lauretta  appeared. 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito,  Signorina !  "  she 
announced. 

To  Kirke  the  announcement  came  like  a  sud- 
den dissonance  in  a  perfect  melody.  Count 
Teodoro  entered,  bowing  low  over  the  hands  of 
the  ladies  and  acknowledging  his  presentation  to 
the  Americans  with  easy  urbanity. 

"We  are  already  almost  acquainted,"  he  sug- 
gested suavely.  "  The  American  Signori,  Dioneo, 
are  my  tenants  in  the  little  mountain  cottage. 
You  have  found  it  attractive,  Signore  Bent- 
ley?" 

"  Very." 

"And  you,  Signorina,"  he  smiled  genially  at 
Beatrice,  "  this  is,  alas !  the  first  opportunity  I 


116  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

have  had  of  welcoming  you  since  your  return. 
I,  too,  have  been  away." 

With  a  tinge  of  malice  Kirke  recalled  the  look 
of  annoyance  with  which  Count  Teodoro  had  left 
the  Lamberti  villa  but  the  week  before.  The 
girl  he  had  vainly  sought  had  been  indolently 
floating  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake  in  her  canoe, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  nobleman's  chagrin. 
The  American  watched  the  Count  bend  atten- 
tively over  Beatrice's  chair,  audibly  begging  for 
particulars  of  her  recent  visit,  and  again  he  was 
conscious  of  the  antagonism  which  had  stirred 
within  him  once  before.  It  received  a  definite 
impetus  in  the  curious  scene  that  followed. 

Count  Teodoro  had  continued  to  voice  his  so- 
licitous curiosity.  For  some  reason,  however, 
the  girl  was  oddly  reticent.  One  by  one  she 
gracefully  evaded  his  queries,  seeking,  with 
heightened  colour,  to  divert  his  interest  to  an- 
other topic.  It  was  quite  in  vain.  Count  Teo- 
doro stroked  his  handsome  moustache  and  bent 
closer,  questioning  her  persistently.  Irritated 
by  the  man's  unaccountable  lack  of  perception, 
Kirke  quickly  shielded  her  from  his  importu- 
nities by  a  tactful  counter-question,  somewhat 
astonished  by  the  flash  of  gratitude  and  relief 
in  her  eyes. 

The  whole  occurrence  had  puzzled  him.  The 
girl's  evident  unwillingness  to  answer  had  been 
strangely  out  of  proportion  to  the  importance  of 


THE     LAMBEETIS  117 

the  questions  asked,  and  Count  Teodoro's  delib- 
erate disregard  of  her  wish  had  been  almost  rude. 
Kirke  in  a  flash  of  anger  felt  that  he  understood 
the  Italian's  insolence.  It  had  been  the  act  of 
a  man  who  heedlessly  plans  a  final  effect,  ob- 
livious in  his  self-absorption  to  all  else.  His  at- 
titude as  he  bent  over  Beatrice  Lamberti  had 
been  one  of  conspicuous  devotion  carefully 
studied  to  convey  an  impression  of  proprietor- 
ship. The  flaunting  challenge  had  borne  in  it  a 
veiled  warning  to  respect  his  rights!  Peasant 
gossip  had  coupled  the  names  of  these  two. 
Kirke,  with  the  memories  of  the  lake  shedding 
the  iridescence  of  romance  and  poetry  about  the 
slender  figure  of  Nocturnia,  looked  at  the  obese 
nobleman  bending  over  her  and  shuddered  at  the 
incongruity  of  the  suggestion.  Handsome,  mas- 
terful, self-possessed  and  gallant  —  yes,  he  was 
all  of  these  and  knew  it  —  but  his  heavy  corpu- 
lence of  body  decried  the  ensemble. 

"And  you,  Dioneo?"  Count  Teodoro  turned 
to  the  old  Italian,  well  content  with  the  means 
he  had  taken  to  define  his  position  in  the  Lam- 
berti household. 

"  I  am  well,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "  And 
you?" 

Count  Teodoro  twirled  his  fierce  moustache 
briskly.  "  As  usual,"  he  affirmed.  "  I  have 
been  more  than  busy." 

"  Count  Teodoro  is  a  very  energetic  scientist," 


118  TRAUMEREI 

explained  Signore  Lambert!  with  a  quiet  smile, 
and  Kirke  fancied  that  the  Count's  grand  man- 
ner had  displeased  him. 

"  A  little  scientific  research,"  shrugged  Count 
Teodoro.  "  I  trust  it  may  one  day  benefit  the 
world."  Careful  as  his  show  of  modesty  had  been, 
however,  it  produced  a  contrary  effect.  The 
scientist  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  polite  wave 
of  his  hand  and  turned  again  to  his  host,  his 
full,  deep  voice  booming  grandly  through  the 
room. 

In  the  full  panoply  of  a  superb  self-possession, 
Count  Teodoro  presently  allowed  a  tinge  of  pat- 
ronage to  creep  into  his  manner  toward  his  host. 
Kirke,  listening  to  their  careless  discussion  in 
outward  calm,  caught  it  instantly.  To  him, 
powerfully  held  by  the  old  Italian's  magnetism, 
the  effrontery  of  Count  Teodoro's  superior  atti- 
tude, conscious  or  otherwise,  was  revolting,  the 
sacrilege  of  a  vandal  who  desecrates  a  temple. 
There  was  an  inheritance  of  hot  blood  in  the 
Bentley  veins.  In  rising  anger  he  caught  Phil's 
eye  and  significantly  signalled  his  desire  to 
leave. 

Kirke  rose.  As  he  did  so  a  peculiar  look  of 
suspicion  flashed  up  in  Count  Teodoro's  eyes. 
Once  before  the  American  had  caught  a  similar 
look,  and  now,  coupled  with  his  inability  to 
fathom  it,  he  found  it  doubly  irritating.  In 
sudden  resentment  he  faced  the  nobleman  and 


THE    LAMBERTIS  119 

looked  squarely  in  his  face.  Their  eyes  met  in 
subtle  antagonism,  then  the  Italian  shifted  un- 
comfortably beneath  the  level  gaze  of  the  Ameri- 
can and  turned  away.  Tacitly  each  man  had 
avowed  his  dislike  of  the  other. 

Outside  Phil  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cig- 
arette, and  confronted  the  blazing  eyes  of  his 
chum. 

"  Phew ! "  he  ejaculated  in  sudden  surprise, 
"  I  haven't  seen  you  look  like  that,  old  man, 
since  you  thrashed  Bobby  Griffith  in  football 
days ! " 

Kirke  did  not  reply,  and  Phil,  blessed  with 
unusual  wisdom  at  times,  refrained  from  further 
comment.  Quietly  he  held  out  his  cigarette 
case  and  struck  a  match.  As  the  flickering 
light  expired  and  Kirke's  cigarette  glowed 
brightly  in  the  darkness,  Phil  smiled  strangely. 
/  A  velvet  pall  of  darkness  lay  over  the  valley, 
thick  and  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  orange  and 
rose  and  jasmine  that  lurked  in  its  sable  folds. 
Overhead  it  was  pierced  by  glittering  javelins 
of  starlight  and  the  faint  luminescence  of  the 
moon  rising  behind  a  distant  hill. ? 

"  Our  excellent  landlord,"  observed  Phil  sud- 
denly, "reminds  me  of  a  whale.  He  has  the 
same  physique  as  that  much  misunderstood 
mammal  —  a  convex  waistline  and  general 
portliness.  Besides,  he  has  the  added  qualifica- 
tion of  exuding  a  sort  of  oil  of  politeness  from 


120  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

all  his  conversational  pores.  I'll  have  to  ask 
Tony  to  buy  me  a  harpoon !  " 

The  fancy  seemed  to  appeal  to  Mr.  Ainsworth. 
In  the  days  that  followed  he  frequently  re- 
ferred to  Count  Teodoro  as  "  The  Whale,"  occa- 
sionally varying  the  monotony  on  state  occa- 
sions by  the  elaborate  cognomen,  "  The  Cetaceous 
Mammal." 

The  Americans  sat  out  upon  the  porch  of  their 
mountain  cottage  until  midnight,  watching{  the 
moon  appear  above  the  hills  and  overflow  in  a 
flood  of  silver  upon  the  valley  below.  It 
threaded  its  course  among  the  stars  until  it 
hung  far  above  them,\a  night  lamp  for  the  sleep- 
ing world.  They  talked  steadily,  of  the  Lam- 
bertis,  of  Count  Teodoro,  of  the  quaint  atmos- 
phere of  the  villa  and  the  rare  old-fashioned 
hospitality  of  the  inmates,  of  Aunt  Emilia,  of  the 
vivid  picture  of  Camillo  Lamberti  and  the  old 
musician's  account  of  Pietro  Masetto,  reverting 
many  times  to  the  odd  chain  of  circumstances 
that  had  attended  the  purchase  of  the  Stradi- 
varius. 

"And  certainly,"  commented  Phil  thought- 
fully, "  Signore  Lamberti  would  not  have  spoken 
of  Pietro  in  just  that  manner  if  he  believed  him 
guilty  of  the  theft  of  his  Stradivarius ! " 

"  No,"  admitted  Kirke.  "  It  would  be  impos- 
sible. After  all,  Pietro  may  be  innocent." 
Even  as  he  spoke,  however,  he  recalled  the  hos- 


THE     LAM  BERT  IS  121 

tile  look  in  Beatrice's  eyes  at  the  mention  of  the 
exile's  name  and  frowned  thoughtfully. 

They  presently  entered  the  villa  and  bolted 
the  front  door.  As  they  did  so,  a  figure  emerged 
from  the  darkness  at  the  side  of  the  house  and 
crept  softly  away  into  the  shadows  of  the  night. 

Long  after  he  had  gone  to  his  room,  Kirke  sat 
by  his  window  wakeful  and  restless.  Looking 
back  to  the  first  revelation  of  the  curious  old 
fiddle  it  had  seemed  to  open  an  unseen  portal 
and  bid  him  enter.  Whimsically  he  had  obeyed, 
to  find  himself  in  a  labyrinth  of  conjecture, 
blindly  following  a  silver  thread.  At  first  it 
had  been  but  a  hair  of  suspicion,  frail  and  un- 
stable, leading  him,  a  modern  knight-errant,  in 
quest  of  adventure,  across  \a  bay  silvered  with 
moonlight  to  a  valley  of  fruit  and  flowers.  In 
the  tropical  rose-glow  of  the  southern  vale,\  a 
little  Italian  girl  in  a  blaze  of  passion  had 
helped  to  strengthen  the  guiding  line  of  silver, 
until  bit  by  bit,  as  he  wound  it  into  a  ball  in 
his  eager  pursuit,  it  had  grown  into  a  strand  of 
assured  suspicion.  Looking  back  he  had  caught 
the  gleam  of  another  cord,  which,  branching 
from  the  one  in  his  hand,  lay  stretched  across 
the  ocean  to  a  distant  land,  firmly  knotting  there 
about  the  wrist  of  a  ragged,  homesick  exile  whose 
honest  eyes  belied  the  suggestion  of  the  glitter- 
ing bond.  Again  he  had  gathered  up  the  grow- 
ing thread  of  suspicion,  eager  to  trace  it  to  its 


122  T  K  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

goal  until  in  the  lure  of  the  lake  and  the  mystic 
goddess  veiled  in  moonfire,  it  had  for  a  time  lay 
limp  in  his  hand,  trailing  and  ignored,  and  once 
more  a  girl,  burdened  with  roses,  had  knotted 
the  silver  strands  and  pointed  ahead!  And  the 
man  had  stared,  a  little  startled  that  the  mock- 
ing nymph  of  the  southern  night,  who  had  been 
a  thing  apart,  should  be  involved  in  his  curious 
quest.  Fate  had  seemed  to  decree  that  those 
who  came  into  his  life  on  the  other  side  of  the 
unseen  portal  should  be  subtly  entangled  in  the 
line  that  had  led  from  the  panel  of  the  Stradi- 
varius  to  Beritola,  winding  about  Lauretta, 
Niccolo,  Dioneo  Lamberti  and  the  dreaming 
Nereid  of  the  Lake  and  stretching  across  the  sea 
to  Pietro  in  America.  Yes,  it  had  entangled 
Philip  Ains worth,  too,  leading  him  across  the 
hedge  of  fire  to  the  cousin  of  Benedetto  Ab- 
bato! 

Kirke  leaned  from  his  window,  watching  the 
moonlit  valley  patched  with  shadows,  the  hills 
shrouded  now  in  purple  gloom  and  lighted  only 
by  the  dim  effulgence  of  the  stars  as  the  fickle 
moon  deserted  them,  projecting  upon  the  silent 
landscape  a  chain  of  pictures ;  there  was  the  old 
Stradivarius,  Dioneo  Lamberti  with  his  dark 
eyes  and  snowy  hair,  the  mysterious  Pietro, 
Lauretta,  the  two  dead  Lambertis  of  another 
century,  the  genius  of  one  visualising  the  genius 
of  the  other  in  a  wonderful  painting!  Of  the 


THE     LAMBERTIS  123 

memories  of  the  evening,  however,  one  picture 
rose  above  them  all,  framed  in  the  wood  of  an 
arching  doorway.  The  dim  radiance  of  candle- 
light flashed  along  a  table  set  with  old-fashioned 
silver  and  china ;  it  shed  a  glow  of  rose  upon  the 
face  of  a  girl  as  she  leaned  thoughtfully  upon 
the  table,  her  chin  resting  upon  her  hand,  her 
eyes  full  of  unspoken  tribute  to  the  man  whose 
reverent  lingers  softly  played  the  Traumerei. 

And  quite  suddenly  Kirke  felt  an  overpower- 
ing desire  to  know  where  Beatrice  Lamberti  had 
been  when  he  first  came  to  Beritola  and  why 
she  had  not  wanted  to  tell  the  Count. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  BRASS  BUTTON 

THE  drowsy  wail  of  Niccolo's  bagpipe  floated 
down  from  his  eyrie  hut  on  the  summit 
of  the  mountain  behind  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  It 
was  a  weird  and  mournful  accompaniment  of 
the  evening  twilight,  a  melody  evolved  from  a 
curious  instrument  fashioned  by  the  ingenious 
hand  of  the  shepherd  himself  from  the  skin  of 
one  of  his  sheep.  Three  of  the  legs  were  rudely 
made  into  pipes  and  the  fourth  formed  the 
nucleus  of  the  mouth-piece.  Niccolo  had  proved 
himself  a  creature  of  habit.  As  regularly  as  he 
bickered  for  twigs  with  Marietta  in  the  morning, 
so  nightly  the  wailing  protest  of  the  departed 
sheep  floated  down  the  mountainside. 

Two  men  wearily  climbing  the  road  to  the 
Villa  Spa  Gett  in  the  dusk  paused  as  the  first 
strains  of  the  bagpipe  reached  them. 

"  The  last  straw ! "  commented  Phil  in  deep 
disgust.  "  Niccolo  is  torturing  that  inflated 
mutton  skin  again.  Ye  gods,  each  night  must  I 
endure  a  mutton  symphony.  I  wish  the  ghost 
of  the  departed  quadruped  would  return  and 
steal  his  musical  hide." 

The  speaker  sat  down  upon  a  rock  and  flatly 

124 


A     BRASS     BUTTON  125 

refused  to  budge.  "  Riley  can  bring  me  my  sup- 
per," he  stated.  "  It's  enough  to  walk  out  from 
Naples  and  bark  every  inch  of  shin  scrambling 
over  rocks.  You're  too  infernally  ambitious, 
Kirke.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  I'd  have  re- 
turned in  state  with  Tony !  " 

Kirke  calmly  boosted  his  friend  with  his  knee 
and  they  struggled  on  up  the  trail. 

"  Thank  you  again ! "  said  Phil  gratefully. 
"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  knee  of  yours,  I'd 
never  have  reached  Beritola.  It's  helped  con- 
siderably." 

He  peered  through  the  trees  at  the  Villa  Spa 
Gett.  A  light  gleamed  brightly  in  the  kitchen 
and  Riley's  voice  was  suddenly  raised  in  mock- 
ing imitation  of  the  bagpipe.  The  nasal  whine, 
startlingly  like  the  pattern,  presently  drifted 
into  an  erratic  song,  fitted  to  Niccolo's  wailing 
obligate,  and  resolved  itself  into  a  weird  improv- 
isation of  which  Gribbins  was  the  unwilling 
subject. 

A  savory  odour  of  coffee  floated  down  through 
the  pines  as  Riley  poured  the  boiling  water  into 
the  urn  and  swore  fluently  at  the  hot  steam  that 
rose  about  his  hand.  With  the  lighting  of  a 
lamp  which  Gribbins  had  set  among  the  china 
of  the  table,  the  window  behind  the  porch  vines 
suddenly  framed  a  cheerful  promise  of  supper. 
The  Englishman  appeared  in  the  doorway  strain- 
ing his  eyes  down  the  trail  in  search  of  his  de- 


126  TRAUMEREI 

linquent  master.  He  greeted  the  Americans 
with  a  garrulous  complaint  of  certain  indigni- 
ties he  had  suffered  through  the  day  at  the  hands 
of  his  abandoned  Irish  tormentor  and  at  Kirke's 
emphatic  command  for  supper  stalked  gloomily 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

"  I  thought,"  remarked  Phil  casually,  in  the 
midst  of  supper,  "  that  you  stopped  in  for  any 
mail  that  had  happened  to  accumulate  since 
Tony's  trip  this  morning." 

"  I  did.  There  was  only  one  letter  and  that 
was  for  me.  I  read  it  while  you  were  buying 
that  long  list  of  domestic  necessities  which  you 
appear  to  regard  as  indispensable  to  our  com- 
fort. It  contains  a  postscript  which  you  may 
find  interesting." 

"  From  whom?" 

"  Margaret.  She  says,"  Kirke  read  the  post- 
script aloud,  "  tell  Phil  it's  neither  necessary  nor 
polite  to  ignore  us  altogether.  We  haven't 
heard  a  word  from  him  since  he  left  Miirren  and 
mother  doesn't  like  it !  " 

Kirke  grinned  broadly  at  his  sister's  final 
words.  Mr.  Ainsworth,  however,  appeared  not 
to  hear  them. 

"  Something,"  he  announced  inconsequently, 
"  is  lumbering  up  the  trail !  " 

The  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  echoed  beneath 
the  window,  creaked  clumsily  up  the  steps  of  the 
Villa  Spa  Gett  and  halted  at  the  open  screen 


TK    BRASS    BUTTON  127 

door  which  led  from  the  living-room  to  the 
porch.  An  instant  later  a  ponderous  knock 
reverberated  throughout  the  house.  Phil  rose. 
A  fat  and  perspiring  butler  in  gorgeous 
livery  stood  revealed  in  the  circle  of  light 
outside  the  door.  He  was  a  physical  pro- 
totype of  Count  Teodoro  with  an  impassive 
countenance  and  alert,  roving  eyes. 

"It's  the  Oily  Echo  who  buttles  for  the 
Whale,"  announced  Phil  under  his  breath. 

"  A  message  from  his  lordship,  Count  Teodoro 
di  Gomito  for  the  American  Signori ! "  pro- 
claimed the  butler  sonorously. 

Phil  pushed  back  the  screen  door  and  received 
an  imposing  document  ablaze  with  the  noble* 
man's  coat-of-arms.  The  Italian  bowed  heavily 
and  departed,  his  bead-like  eyes  making  a  sly 
examination  of  the  room  and  missing  noth- 
ing. 

Grinning  at  Riley's  envious  comment  upon  the 
departing  livery  as  viewed  from  the  kitchen  win- 
dow, Phil  opened  the  heavy  envelope  with  af- 
fected veneration. 

"  We  have  been  taken  up  by  the  aristocracy !  " 
he  announced.  "  His  lordship  formally  invites 
us  to  dine  with  him  Thursday  evening.  I  shall 
go,"  he  declared  with  finality. 

"  I  shall  not! "  was  the  dry  response. 

Phil  seated  himself  and  tossed  the  invitation 
across  the  table. 


128  TRAUMEKEI 

"  In  this  particular  instance,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  I  think  it  would  be  wisdom  to  accept." 

"  Wisdom  be  hanged ! "  grumbled  Kirke. 
"We're  under  no  obligation  to  him!" 

"  Granted.  The  fact  remains,  however,  that 
he  owns  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  It  is  just  as  well 
to  conceal  one's  opinion  of  the  landlord.  We're 
very  comfortable  here  and  he  could  kick  us 
out" 

Kirke  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  returned  to 
his  coffee,  but  he  offered  no  further  objection. 
Had  he  known  his  chum's  real  reason  for  pro- 
pitiating their  aristocratic  landlord  he  would 
have  been  genuinely  astonished. 

Early  that  morning  as  the  Americans  rode 
into  Naples  with  Tony,  they  had  met  Count  Teo- 
doro  driving  homeward.  To  Phil,  thoughtfully 
stirring  his  coffee,  the  details  of  the  incident  re- 
curred unpleasantly  as  they  had  many  other 
times  throughout  the  day. 

The  Italian  had  halted  his  horses  with  a  civil 
greeting. 

"  A  day  in  Napoli,  Signori? "  he  queried 
pleasantly. 

t(  &i,  Signore."  Kirke  had  answered  with  the 
Bentley  air  which  always  made  his  friend  grin 
in  secret  enjoyment, .  it  was  so  ominously  cour- 
teous ! 

"  You  will  of  course  visit  the  Villa  Eeale?  At 
sunset  it  is  most  picturesque." 


A    BRASS     BUTTON  129 

"Gmzie,  Signore.  We  shall  indeed  avail  our- 
selves of  your  suggestion." 

That  had  been  all.  Phil,  however,  stealing  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  Italian  to  watch  the  effect  of 
his  chum's  overwhelming  politeness,  had  caught 
him  in  an  unguarded  moment.  Count  Teodoro's 
eyes,  as  they  rested  upon  Kirke,  had  flashed  sud- 
denly with  smouldering  fire.  Had  the  sugges- 
tion not  been  so  preposterous,  Phil  would  have 
unhesitatingly  analysed  the  look  as  one  of  con- 
centrated hate  and  rage.  There  had  been  more 
to  it  than  the  jealous  anxiety  of  an  aspiring 
lover  who  resents  the  propinquity  of  a  younger 
and  more  comely  man  than  himself;  it  had  sug- 
gested the  fury  of  an  animal  who  is  driven  to 
bay  and  turns  to  tear  the  hunter  to  pieces.  Al- 
though Phil  had  instantly  condemned  this  fancy 
as  theatric  in  the  extreme,  the  occurrence  had 
made  him  wary.  His  desire  to-night  to  accept 
Count  Teodoro's  invitation  had  been  largely  due 
to  his  determination  to  guard  against  any  open 
show  of  hostility. 

Phil  finished  his  coffee  and  lit  a  cigar,  indo- 
lently watching  Gribbins  restore  the  living-room 
to  order.  Having  removed  the  evidences  of 
its  brief  metamorphosis  into  a  dining-room,  the 
Englishman  drew  the  shades,  placed  the  day's 
papers  on  the  table  and  noiselessly  withdrew. 

"Well,"  questioned  Kirke,  "has  the  prospect 
of  dining  at  the  castle  rendered  you  speechless?  " 


130  TEAUMEEEI 

For  answer  Phil  rose,  rambled  aimlessly  about 
the  room,  opening  and  shutting  the  drawers  of  a 
desk  and  peering  into  the  closet,  and  presently 
seated  himself  amidst  an  elaborate  parapher- 
nalia of  pens,  ink,  paper  and  an  enormous  Italian 
dictionary,  with  the  announcement  that  he  was 
about  to  answer  Count  Teodoro's  invitation. 

Kirke  regarded  the  self-appointed  scribe  with 
a  grin. 

"  Is  your  Italian  equal  to  the  strain  ? "  he 
queried. 

"  My  Italian,"  remarked  the  social  secretary 
with  professional  pride,  "  is  like  none  other  in 
the  valley.  You  forget  that  it  has  been  carefully 
pruned  for  several  mornings  now  by  the  Sig- 
norina  Emilia ! "  He  scribbled  intermittently 
for  some  time.  "  There ! "  he  announced  tri- 
umphantly, closing  the  dictionary  with  a  bang, 
"  I've  accepted  for  myself  in  the  politest  terms 
and  then  I've  added  a  postscript,  providing  for 
any  little  eccentricity  you  may  develop,  in  which 
I  say  very  informally,  '  P.  S.,  Kirke  says  you 
can  go  to  the  Devil.  He'll  come  if  he  wants 
to.' " 

Kiley  appeared  in  the  doorway,  grinning,  his 
daredevil  face  crowned  in  the  terrible  towel  tur- 
ban he  had  affected  since  his  installation  as 
cook. 

"  His  Dagoship  lost  wan  of  his  beauteous  but- 
tons ! "  he  announced. 


A     BRASS     BUTTON  131 

"  Keep  it,"  yawned  Phil,  "  for  a  watch- 
charm." 

The  cook  pocketed  the  gaudy  bit  of  brass  and 
turned  away,  but  neither  of  the  Americans  no- 
ticed that  he  flashed  a  warning  look  at  Grib- 
bins  and  frowned  thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER  X 

COUNT  TEODORO   DI  GOMITO 

THE  Americans  clanged  the  brass  knocker  at 
the  castle  door  and  inspected  in  silent  in- 
terest the  grim  walls  that  rose  about  them. 
From  the  barbican  of  the  ancient  tower,  whence 
in  olden  days  the  alert  watchman  had  peered, 
to  the  protecting  ramparts  and  loopholes,  yawn- 
ing in  readiness  for  belching  fire-arms,  the  old 
castle  gave  out  a  bellicose  message  of  an  im- 
pregnable preparation  for  the  fortunes  of  war. 
Though  no  sentinels  marched  bravely  to  and  fro 
upon  the  ramparts  and  the  sally-port  lay 
open  in  twentieth  century  security,  there 
was  an  indescribable  suggestion  about  the 
ancient  fortress  of  the  days  of  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline. 

The  great  door  before  them  presently  creaked 
open  in  the  hands  of  Giacomo,  the  butler. 
Kirke,  eyeing  the  gorgeous  livery  which  had  ex- 
cited Riley's  ridicule,  recalled  Marietta's  de- 
scription of  the  Count's  staff  of  servants. 

"II  Signore  Conte?"  she  had  exclaimed 
scathingly.  "Madonna  mia,  he  counts  each 
soldo!  In  that  great  castle  he  has  but  two,  my 
sister  Therese  for  the  kitchen  and  that  accursed 

132 


COUNT    DI     GOMITO          133 

pig  of  a  Giacomo  for  everything  else !  Presence 
of  the  Devil,  what  a  man !  " 

Giacomo  bowed  the  Americans  into  an  enor- 
mous corridor  paved  in  stone  and  warmed  into 
a  semblance  of  cheer  by  rugs  of  mahogany  red. 
It  was  dimly  lighted  by  an  antique  lamp  of 
bronze. 

Count  Teodoro  emerged  from  the  shadows  at 
the  rear  and  greeted  his  guests  urbanely. 

"  Good  evening,  Signori !  "  he  said  in  excellent 
English.  "  Ah  —  you  are  surprised  that  I  speak 
your  English?  'Tis  even  so.  The  Signorina 
Beatrice  and  I  speak  it  at  times  by  way  of  di- 
version." Phil  felt  that  his  careless  reference 
to  the  girl  had  been  artfully  premeditated. 

"  However,"  went  on  Count  Teodoro  pleas- 
antly, "  both  of  you  gentlemen  are  such  accom- 
plished linguists  that  perhaps  we  may  abide  by 
that  old  saying,  *  When  you  are  in  Rome,  be  a 
Roman.'  Since  we  are  in  Italy,  let  us  then  talk 
Italian." 

His  handsome  eyes  lingered  on  the  faces  of 
his  guests  in  smiling  inscrutability.  Kirke  took 
refuge  in  a  careful  formality,  but  Phil,  with  an 
odd  expression  in  his  eyes,  met  the  Italian's  ad- 
vances with  apparent  cordiality. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  partake  of  my  hos- 
pitality," went  on  the  Italian  easily.  "  To  a 
bachelor  of  my  retired  habits  such  an  evening  is 
a  rare  treat.  You  are  both  warm  from  the 


134  TKAUMEREI 

climb?  Allow  me."  He  quickly  turned  to  a 
side  table  and  poured  three  glasses  of  a  thin, 
sour  wine.  "  Myself,"  he  shrugged  as  he  set 
his  glass  down,  "  I  prefer  the  cognac.  In  this 
climate,  however,  it  works  with  the  sun." 

Phil  praised  the  wine  with  a  mental  reserva- 
tion and  finding  to  his  huge  diversion  that  the 
Bentley  air  was  once  more  in  prominence,  deftly 
drew  his  chum  into  the  conversation  and  left 
him  stranded. 

"  Indeed,  Signore,"  protested  the  Italian 
suavely  in  response  to  a  polite  remark  of  Kirke's, 
"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of 
showing  you  my  castle.  It  is  very  old  and  very 
interesting.  There  are  some  genuine  Giotto 
frescoes  in  the  chapel."  He  turned  to  remove 
a  great  key  from  a  hook  on  the  wall,  amiably 
stroking  his  moustache.  Phil,  whose  keen  eyes 
missed  nothing,  fancied  that  a  faint  smile  played 
for  an  instant  about  the  Italian's  mouth  under 
cover  of  his  hand.  The  occurrence,  trifling  as  it 
was,  annoyed  him.  Whatever  amusing  element 
there  was  in  the  present  situation,  he  reflected, 
was  patent  to  Count  Teodoro  alone. 

Their  host  led  the  way  up  a  flight  of  stone 
stairs  and  unlocked  a  door  at  the  head.  Thence 
he  guided  the  Americans  through  an  endless  pro- 
cession of  stone  corridors  which  clanked  drear- 
ily at  their  unaccustomed  contact  with  human 
feet,  offering  in  apologetic  excuse  for  the  deso- 


COUNT    DI     GOMITO          135 

lation  of  the  dusty  rooms  on  either  side  their 
prolonged  desuetude.  His  own  apartments  lay 
entirely  in  the  other  wing  of  the  castle. 

Kirke  scanned  the  old  rooms  one  by  one,  a  lit- 
tle ashamed  of  the  persistent  antagonism  that 
welled  up  within  him  at  the  sound  of  Count  Teo- 
doro's  deep  voice  booming  through  the  corridors. 
The  Italian  before  him  was  the  scion  of  a  long 
line  of  ancestors  whose  culture  and  refinement 
lay  revealed,  in  spite  of  dust  and  cobweb,  in  this 
great,  deserted  portion  of  the  castle,  cut  off  from 
the  master's  luxurious  apartments  by  lock  and 
key.  Walls  had  been  wonderfully  wrought  in 
coloured  marbles;  floors  laid  in  an  exquisite 
mosaic;  surely  —  but  Count  Teodoro's  voice 
echoed  close  at  hand  and  the  American  shrugged. 
The  ancestral  Gomitos,  he  told  himself,  had  been 
cast  in  a  different  mould ! 

Through  the  castle  barracks  and  state  court, 
grim  and  mouldy  relics  of  a  past  grandeur,  the 
three  men  passed  to  the  chapel  beyond,  dimly 
alight  for  their  inspection.  The  light  from  the 
altar  candles  flickered  on  the  Gothic  windows 
and  etched  strange  shadows  on  the  sombre  walls. 
The  Giotto  frescoes?  Kirke  stood  before  them 
in  silent  appreciation.  The  man  who  had  been 
the  artistic  harbinger  of  the  spring  of  the  Ital- 
ian Renaissance  had  given  of  his  best  to  this  re- 
mote castle  chapel. 

"  Giotto  was  a  friend  of  the  —  of  the  builder 


136  TRAUMEREI 

of  the  castle,"  explained  the  Italian.  "  Tradition 
has  it  that  he  planned  the  Campanile  at  Flor- 
ence within  these  walls." 

Phil  turned  restlessly  to  the  chapel  door,  de- 
pressed by  the  great  loneliness  that  hovered  over 
the  ancient  wing  of  the  castle  like  a  funeral 
pall.  Count  Teodoro,  however,  in  a  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm recalled  him,  indicating  some  old 
statues  of  the  saints.  The  Italian  had  suddenly 
grown  eloquent  in  his  appreciation.  A  curious 
light  flashed  up  in  his  fine  eyes,  and  Kirke,  mind- 
ful of  the  feeling  that  stirred  within  himself  at 
times  when  he  faced  the  embodiment  of  a  man's 
genius,  secretly  credited  his  host  with  unsus- 
pected depths.  Not  so  Phil,  however.  His 
practical  hard-headedness  had  instantly  detected 
in  the  Italian's  zealous  appreciation  an  unnat- 
ural element.  Was  Count  Teodoro  making  a 
pretence  of  an  intellectual  enthusiasm  which  he 
did  not  feel  for  purposes  of  effect?  Phil  thought 
so.  The  nervous  excitement  in  the  Italian's 
eyes  and  his  fleeting  self -consciousness  had  be- 
trayed him.  Reluctantly,  it  seemed,  Count  Teo- 
doro at  length  ushered  his  guests  back  to  the 
great  hall  and  thence  to  his  own  apartments. 

Of  these  but  one  room  repeated  the  tone  of 
antiquity  sounded  in  the  disused  portion  of  the 
castle.  Kirke,  who  had  been  a  little  displeased 
by  the  modern  luxury  with  which  the  Italian 
had  surrounded  himself,  found  his  interest  re- 


COUNTDI     GOMITO          137 

viving  again  in  the  Count's  library.  The  wall 
opposite  the  doorway  through  which  they  had 
entered  was  panelled  to  the  height  of  a  tall 
man  in  Flemish  oak,  heavily  carved,  above  which 
stretched  an  exquisite  fresco.  The  other  walls 
of  the  great  room  were  lined  to  the  ceiling  with 
books.  Phil,  seeking  the  windowed  recess  at  the 
side,  found  his  outlook  grimly  barricaded  by  the 
rocky  slope  of  a  steep  hill,  one  of  the  file  which 
stretches  from  the  castle  to  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea. 
There  were  one  or  two  bizarre  twentieth  century 
touches,  a  phonograph  and  a  Neapolitan  sport- 
ing paper.  In  the  main,  however,  Count  Teo- 
doro  had  been  content  with  the  library  of  his  an- 
cestors. 

"And  here,  Signori,"  the  Italian  opened  a 
door  at  the  side,  "  you  see  my  laboratory." 

The  Americans  found  themselves  in  a  shelved 
room  of  extreme  disorder.  Crucibles,  retorts 
and  labelled  bottles  were  grouped  about  in  con- 
fusion upon  floor  and  table  and  chairs.  The 
ashes  of  a  brick  furnace  heaped  about  a  crucible 
of  iron  attested  the  fact  that  the  scientist  had 
been  summoned  away  in  the  midst  of  his  work, 
the  red  coals  of  his  fire  paling  to  ashes  in  his 
absence.  Count  Teodoro  removed  the  forgotten 
vessel  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile. 

"  You  see,"  he  explained  pleasantly,  "  I  had 
forgotten  the  boiling  crucible  in  the  pleasure  of 
your  company.  My  furnace,"  he  added  care- 


138  TRAUMEREI 

lessly,  indicating  the  bright  scarlet  of  the  bricks, 
"  has  just  been  bricked  in  anew.  See,  here  is  the 
closet  in  which  I  keep  my  chemicals  and  all 
these  are  my  utensils." 

Kirke  glanced  carelessly  about  him.  The  eye 
of  the  artist  had  instantly  found  the  defect  in  the 
picture.  The  apparent  disorder  of  the  Count's 
laboratory  was  too  extreme.  It  suggested  a 
carefully  studied  effect  to  render  the  Italian's 
scientific  research  more  impressive.  Indeed,  as 
in  everything  else  of  Count  Teodoro's,  from 
Giacomo's  livery  to  the  luxurious  apartments,  it 
was  overdone,  revealing  an  inborn  love  of  os- 
tentation. 

"  I  presume,"  suggested  Phil,  carelessly  indi- 
cating a  group  of  vessels  close  at  hand,  "  that 
you  break  a  number  of  utensils  in  the  interests 
of  science.  These,  I  fancy,  have  been  replaced 
quite  recently?  " 

The  scientist  shot  a  keen  glance  at  his  guest. 

"  Indeed,  yes !  "  he  replied  quickly.  "  Some 
of  them  are  very  frail." 

He  turned  away,  and  both  Americans 
thought  that  he  was  annoyed  and  wondered  at 
it.  But  in  an  instant,  he  was  once  more  dilat- 
ing eagerly  upon  the  perfection  of  his  laboratory 
equipment.  Phil,  who  felt  that  the  Italian  had 
already  extended  the  exhibition  of  his  scientific 
paraphernalia  beyond  the  limits  of  good  taste, 
watched  him  closely.  There  was  an  unusual 


COUNT    DI     GOMITO          139 

alertness  about  him,  visible  only  to  the  close  ob- 
server. Recalling  the  strange  smile  that  had 
piqued  him  earlier  in  the  evening  and  later  the 
curious  fire  in  the  Italian's  eyes  and  his  sudden 
outbreak  of  enthusiasm  in  the  chapel,  he  men- 
tally added  the  scientist's  annoyance  of  a  min- 
ute ago,  and  now  his  watchful  vigilance,  decid- 
ing that  the  malignant  look  he  had  surprised 
in  the  nobleman's  eyes  earlier  in  the  week  was 
not  the  only  inexplicable  thing  about  him. 

Count  Teodoro's  elaborate  discourse  was 
brought  to  an  abrupt  close  by  the  appearance 
of  Giacomo. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  sir ! "  he  announced  very 
distinctly,  and  Phil,  secretly  alert  with  undefined 
distrust,  caught  the  queer  glance  that  flashed 
between  master  and  man,  and  made  a  mental 
note  of  it. 

The  room  in  which  the  three  men  dined  had 
once  been  the  castle's  banquet  hall.  The  great 
board  about  which  the  Count's  ancestors  had 
been  accustomed  to  gather  in  the  old  days,  how- 
ever, had  been  replaced  by  a  highly  polished 
rococo  bit  of  furniture,  magnificently  aglitter 
with  showy  appointments.  To  Kirke,  silently 
admiring  the  older  furnishings  of  the  great  hall, 
the  carved  and  inlaid  chairs  of  walnut,  the  som- 
bre rafters  above  his  head  and  the  Italian 
damask  with  which  the  walls  were  hung,  this 
modern  desecration  of  his  host's  was  repellent. 


140  TRAUMEBEI 

The  dinner  was  excellent.  Whatever  the  Ital- 
ian's artistic  limitations  might  be,  he  had  re- 
vealed the  taste  of  an  epicure  in  the  selection  of 
his  wine  and  cigars.  Over  his  coffee,  black  and 
fragrant,  Count  Teodoro  waxed  suavely  talk- 
ative, presently  dismissing  Giacomo  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  great  mystery  to  me,"  he 
began,  settling  back  in  his  chair  in  post-prandial 
informality,  "  why  the  American  Signori  should 
have  chosen  our  obscure  little  valley  in  which  to 
rusticate."  He  puffed  luxuriously  at  his  cigar, 
adding  carelessly,  "  Few,  if  any,  Americans  have 
ever  honoured  us  with  a  visit." 

"  Beritola  was  recommended  to  us  as  an  ideal 
place  in  which  to  rest,"  lied  Phil  promptly.  "  I 
have  sometimes  wondered  how  you  content  your- 
self with  the  solitude." 

"  The  valley  has  its  attractions,"  replied  the 
Italian  pointedly,  "  and  the  very  solitude  is  an 
advantage  to  a  man  of  science  such  as  my- 
self." 

"  Assuredly ! "  agreed  Phil.  He  flicked  the 
ash  from  his  cigar  and  added  maliciously,  "  The 
charms  of  the  valley  which  hold  you,  we,  too, 
have  found  irresistible! " 

"  Ah,  I  see !  "  The  Italian  looked  sharply  at 
his  guest,  but  found  no  suggestion  of  insinuation 
in  the  bland  face  of  the  young  gentleman  who 
had  spoken.  "  The  recommendation  came,  I 


IT     IS     A     MATTER     OF     GREAT     MYSTERY     TO     ME     WHY     THE     AMERICAN 

Signori  SHOULD    HAVE    CHOSEN    OUR  OBSCURE  LITTLE 

VALLEY    IN    WHICH    TO    RUSTICATE." 


COUNT    DI     GOMITO          141 

presume,  from  some  friend  who  knew  of  the 
great  natural  beauty  of  the  valley?  " 

Phil's  eyes  twinkled  oddly.  Kirke,  a  little 
annoyed  by  Count  Teodoro's  persistent  curi- 
osity, glanced  across  at  his  chum  and  grinned 
inwardly,  quite  content  to  resign  the  Italian  to 
his  friend's  resourceful  tongue. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Phil  confidentially,  in  re- 
sponse to  his  host's  query,  "  he  was  a  famous  au- 
thor. In  fact,  he  wrote  one  of  his  books  while 
he  was  staying  at  Manuel  Ciapelletto's  cot- 
tage." 

"  Great  Heavens !  "  reflected  Kirke  in  genuine 
alarm,  "  I  don't  believe  Phil  even  knows  his 
name ! " 

His  guess  was  quite  correct.  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
rapidly  inventing  a  score  of  plausible  excuses 
for  a  delinquent  memory  in  event  of  any  further 
inquiry,  accepted  another  cigar,  calmly  sipped 
his  cordial  and  awaited  developments.  To  the 
relief  of  both,  the  Italian  himself  saved  the  day. 

"  Ah !  "  he  exclaimed  in  surprise,  "  you  know 
Signore  Philip  Lane  Andrews?" 

Phil  laughed  quietly  as  if  the  idea  were  amus- 
ing, as  indeed  it  was! 

"  Know  him !  "  he  declared  good-humouredly, 
"  why,  my  dear  Count,  he's  my  cousin.  As  you 
can  see  for  yourself,  I  was  named  after  him !  " 

"Indeed!" 

Phil  deliberately  ignored  a  warning  pressure 


142  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

of  his  chum's  foot  intended  to  intimate  that  he 
had  gone  quite  far  enough. 

"  My  esteemed  aunt,"  he  explained,  expanding 
genially,  "  married  an  Englishman  and  Phil 
Andrews  is  their  son.  Signore  Bentley  and  I 
were  travelling  in  England  searching  for  some 
quiet  place  in  which  he  might  regain  his  health 
and  Cousin  Philip  suggested  Beritola.  Signore 
Bentley  came  on  ahead  and  I  followed  later  as 
perhaps  you  know,  though,  perhaps,  I  should  not 
have  allowed  him  to  travel  alone  in  his  broken- 
down  condition." 

"Signore  Bentley  was  ill?"  Count  Teodoro 
glanced  searchingly  across  the  table. 

Kirke  nodded  carelessly,  recognising  the  fu- 
tility of  stemming  the  play  of  his  friend's  im- 
agination. 

"  Alas,  yes ! "  deplored  Phil,  sipping  his  cor- 
dial. "A  general  nervous  break-down,"  he 
added  sadly,  "  from  overwork.  Signore  Bentley 
is  an  artist  of  exceptional  ability." 

The  biographer  omitted  to  add  that  his  pros- 
trated artist,  whose  ability  was  indeed  excep- 
tional, had  not  touched  brush  to  canvas  since  the 
days  he  had  spent  with  the  great  Salvatore,  am- 
bitiously planning  a  life's  work  that  had  since 
been  curiously  perverted. 

"  When  he  finished  his  last  picture,"  contin- 
ued this  American  Munchausen  imperturbably, 
polishing  his  literary  narrative  into  invincible 


143 

t 

perfection,  "  the  doctors  said  he  must  give  up 
work  immediately  and  live  for  an  indefinite 
period  in  a  quiet  place.  There,  my  dear  Count, 
you  have  the  cause  of  our  invasion !  " 

"  Ananias,"  reflected  Kirke,  "  never  fully 
realised  the  possibilities  of  his  art.  Ben 
trovato! " 

"  And  Signore  Bentley  is  feeling  better? " 
Count  Teodoro  turned  solicitously  to  his  guest. 

"  Decidedly !  "  affirmed  Signore  Bentley,  smil- 
ing. 

Count  Teodoro  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose. 
Phil's  eyes,  wandering  carelessly  over  the  heavy 
body  of  the  Italian,  rested  at  length  upon  a 
horn-shaped  bit  of  coral  depending  from  his 
watch-chain. 

"  Evidently  Count  Teodoro  is  superstitious," 
he  mused  thoughtfully.  "  Those  coral  things 
are  a  protection  against  the  evil  eye,  jettatore,  I 
think  they  call  it." 

The  bit  of  coral  attracted  his  attention 
again  as  they  made  their  adieus  in  the  castle 
hall. 

"  Have  you  any  haunted  chambers  in  the 
castle,  Count  Teodoro? "  he  inquired,  smiling. 
"Any  ghosts  that  rattle  chains  and  groan  at 
midnight?  " 

"  None !  "  shrugged  the  Italian.  "  The  Su- 
pernatural flees  from  the  Searchlight  of  Science." 

In  spite  of  his  easy  words,  however,  it  was 


144  TKAUMEREI 

evident  from  Count  Teodoro's  manner  that  he 
had  found  the  suggestion  unpleasant. 

"  Our  host,"  confided  Phil,  looking  back  at  the 
twinkling  lights  of  the  castle  as  they  descended 
into  the  valley,  "  is,  I  suspect,  very  superstitious. 
That  coral  affair  on  his  watch-chain  is  a  protec- 
tion against  the  evil  eye." 

"  He  displayed  particular  discretion  in  wear- 
ing it  to-night ! "  replied  Kirke  pointedly. 
"  That  romance  about  your  cousin,  Phil  An- 
drews, whom  you  were  named  after  — " 

"  Perfectly  true !  "  affirmed  Phil  with  a  grin. 
"  I've  read  somewhere  that  the  gifted  cousin 
whom  I  so  generously  adopted  to-night  has 
passed  the  half-century  mark.  Naturally 
enough,  I  was  named  after  him  —  a  number  of 
years  after ! " 

In  silence  they  climbed  the  trail  to  the  Villa 
Spa  Gett.  Phil  was  busily  sorting  over  the 
pieces  of  a  very  incomplete  puzzle.  Count  Teo- 
doro's fleeting  annoyance  in  the  laboratory  — 
certainly  the  careless  indication  of  the  new 
utensils  had  not  warranted  it !  —  Giacomo's 
timely  announcement  of  dinner,  and  the  strange 
glance  that  had  passed  between  master  and  man, 
the  undercurrent  of  excitement  that  had  revealed, 
itself  in  the  chapel  and  later  in  the  laboratory; 
were  they  all  pieces  of  the  same  puzzle?  Would 
its  solution  involve  the  strange  look  the  Ital- 


COUNT    DI     GOMITO          145 

ian  had  cast  at  Kirke,  and  the  flickering  amuse- 
ment about  his  mouth  in  the  castle  hall? 

Or  after  all,  were  they  perhaps  trifling  occur- 
rences elevated  to  importance  by  his  own  dislike 
and  hostility? 

Certainly  not  the  latter,  promptly  decided  Mr. 
Ainsworth. 


CHAPTER  XI 

NICCOLO'S  VISITOR 

\fTHHE  dawn  had  come  in  a  heavy  grey  mist 
•*•  which  shrouded  the  valley  and  warned  the 
waking  earth  of  the  heat  to  follow.  A  wonder- 
ful glow  of  rose  and  gold  suddenly  illumined 
the  east  and  as  the  growing  radiance  flashed 
shafts  of  iridescence  through  the  fog,  the  God- 
dess of  the  Dawn  daintily  discarded  her  mantle 
of  mist  and  stood  revealed  in  the  splendour  of 
the  sunrise.  The  delicate  mother-of-pearl  that 
had  been  the  sky's  harbinger  of  the  rising  sun 
became  a  brilliant  flush  of  colour,  and  the  cold 
mauve  that  had  tipped  the  hills  warmed  into 
glorious  sapphire./ 

In  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  the  Americans  were 
aroused  by  a  curiously  familiar  sound  beneath 
their  windows.  It  gradually  resolved  itself  into 
a  pair  of  voices  fiercely  berating  each  other. 
Phil  rose  and  peered  from  the  window,  summon- 
ing Kirke  in  an  amused  undertone.  Marietta,  in 
an  excess  of  zeal,  was  following  Niccolo  step  by 
step  as  he  retreated  to  his  eyrie  hut  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain. 

The  cause  was  evident.  Niccolo  had  collected 
a  bundle  of  twigs  so  enormous  that  his  feminine 

146 


NICCOLO'S    VISITOR        147 

rival  was  powerless  to  duplicate  it  by  reason  of 
a  sheer  physical  inability  to  bear  the  weight. 
The  little  brown  woman  had  worked  herself  up 
to  a  wild  pitch  of  excitement  in  resenting  his 
victory,  and,  loathe  to  leave  the  unchivalrous 
twig-gatherer  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  success, 
had  steadily  followed  him  up  the  trail  to  the 
Villa  Spa  Gett,  an  occurrence  as  unprecedented 
as  the  cause. 

"  Niccolo,"  she  taunted  fiercely,  "  I  shall  come 
in  the  night  and  stick  a  pin  in  that  accursed 
bagpipe  of  yours.  Each  night  its  godless  noise 
disturbs  me ! " 

"Corpo!"  ejaculated  the  pecorajo  philosoph- 
ically, "  much  good  may  it  do  you.  I  kill  me 
another  sheep.  I  have  a  quantity  of  excellent 
mutton  for  some  time  and  a  new  bagpipe,  and 
until  it  becomes  improved  by  age,  its  sounds  will 
be  most  terrible !  " 

"  Epictetus !  "  murmured  Kirke  with  a  grin. 

"  'Tis  already  most  terrible!"  cried  Marietta, 
angered  by  his  persistent  coolness.  "  The  Devil 
himself  could  do  no  worse."  She  suddenly  laid 
down  her  own  bundle  of  twigs  and,  wriggling 
her  fingers  about  an  imaginary  bagpipe,  danced 
wildly  about,  distorting  her  face  and  making 
strange,  hideous  noises  in  unflattering  imitation 
of  her  musical  rival.  "  'Tis  so  it  sounds,"  she 
declared  flatly. 

Mccolo      laughed      heartily.     His      ridicule 


148  TEAUMEREI 

spurred  her  on,  and  in  furious  tones  she  added, 
"  The  bagpipe  is  an  unchristian  instrument.  It 
was  made  to  torture  us  like  a  pest !  " 

"  Mache!"  averred  Niccolo  with  cool  sarcasm, 
"  it  is  safer  than  a  violin,  and  it  gets  one  in  no 
trouble  so  that  he  must  needs  run  away !  " 

"  Pietro  did  not  run  away.  Niccolo,  you 
lie!" 

Kirke  leaned  forward,  intent  upon  the  argu- 
ment which  had  turned  again  to  the  subject  of 
such  vital  interest  to  himself. 

"  He  went  in  the  night ! "  declared  Niccolo. 
"  He  said  good-bye  to  no  one !  " 

"  The  padrone  at  the  villa  does  not  think  of 
him  as  you  do." 

"  The  padrone/'  asserted  Niccolo  loftily, 
"  thinks  each  man  as  good  as  himself.  'Tis  im- 
possible ! " 

"  Nevertheless,"  suddenly  burst  out  Marietta, 
feeling  that  she  was  being  worsted,  and  with 
true  feminine  instinct  returning  to  the  subject 
that  was  most  likely  to  annoy  her  antagonist, 
"  the  bagpipe  is  an  accursed  pest  and  the  player 
a  robber  who  robs  the  valley  of  the  quiet  that 
comes  with  the  twilight !  " 

"Your  matchless  Pietro  was  wont  to  play 
upon  the  hills  in  the  twilight !  " 

"  That's  different.  Pietro  had  the  music  of 
the  gods.  You  have  but  the  squeal  of  accursed 
pigs." 


NICCOLO'S    VISITOK        149 

Stung  out  of  his  philosophical  calm  by  the 
taunting  reference  to  an  accomplishment  in 
which  he  took  secret  pride,  Niccolo  burst  into 
sudden  anger. 

"  Squealing  of  pigs,  mayhap,  but  it  brings  no 
stranger  of  the  law  to  Beritola  in  search  of 
me!" 

"  'Tis  but  a  matter  of  time,"  scoffed  Marietta, 
"before  the  law  will  come  and  forbid  the  god- 
less noises  we  nightly  hear ! "  and  then  in  sud- 
den comprehension  of  the  veiled  scorn  in  her 
rival's  voice  she  added  angrily,  "  nor  did  any 
stranger  of  the  law  come  in  search  of  Pietro. 
Your  accursed  lies  will  hang  you  yet,  Nic- 
colo." 

"  The  hangman's  rope  will  close  my  ears  to 
the  sound  of  your  voice ! "  averred  the  shepherd 
angrily,  "  and  'twould  perhaps  be  worth  it.  You 
say  the  law  did  not  reach  out  its  arm  for  Pietro? 
You  know  not.  Two,  three  nights  after  the 
American  Signore  came  to  Beritola,  a  stranger 
came  late  at  night  to  my  hut.  '  Niccolo,'  he 
said  —  and  Body  of  Bacchus!  I  know  not  how 
he  knew  my  name !  — '  you  will  tell  me  for  this 
gold  piece  where  Pietro  Masetto  is  reported  to 
have  gone.'  It  is  not  my  way  to  point  out  the 
hunted  animal  to  the  sniffing  dogs,  but  I  looked 
at  the  gold  piece  and  well  knowing  that  it  is  a 
long  arm  that  reaches  across  the  ocean,  I  said, 
'  'Tis  reported  that  he  is  in  America.'  ( I  had 


150 

thought  so,'  said  the  stranger ; '  'twould  be  worth 
another  gold  piece  if  I  knew  for  sure.'  l  You 
may  know  for  sure,'  I  +old  him,  '  for  Marietta's 
Lauretta  has  a  letter  from  him  stamped  with  the 
word  America  across  the  face.'  He  paid  me  two 
gold  pieces  and  departed  in  the  darkness  whence 
he  had  come,  not,  however,  before  he  had  cau- 
tioned me  to  keep  silence,  and  you,  Marietta, 
with  your  accursed  tongue  have  led  me  to  be- 
tray it  after  a  silence  of  weeks !  " 

"  You  know  not  that  it  was  a  sbirro! "  flashed 
Marietta  suddenly. 

"  The  law  knows  everything  and  it  has  much 
gold.  The  stranger  knew  my  name,  though  I 
had  never  seen  him  before,  and  his  pockets  were 
lined  with  gold.  Mache!  he  is  the  law!  Mind 
you,  Marietta,  if  you  repeat  what  I  have  said  in 
my  anger,  I  will  play  upon  the  bagpipe  all  night 
beneath  your  window !  " 

With  a  parting  imprecation  of  disgust  at  his 
own  loss  of  temper,  Niccolo  strode  on  up  the 
mountain,  and  Marietta,  her  brown  face  wrin- 
kling up  into  a  fiendish  grin  of  delight  at  his  ap- 
parent disturbance,  suddenly  burst  into  song. 

"  Addio,  mio  caro  amore"  she  sang  in  tanta- 
lising derision  as  she  descended  the  mountain  be- 
neath her  bundle  of  twigs  — 

"  Un  amplesso,  e  poscia  addio, 
Non  tfha  pena  —  non  v'ha  dolore  — " 


NICCOLO'S    VISITOR        151 

The  voice  died  away.  Kirke  looked  gravely 
at  his  companion. 

"  So,"  he  said  quietly,  "  a  stranger  has  been 
inquiring  for  Pietro  Masetto  since  my  arrival  in 
Beritola.  What  do  you  make  of  that?  " 

"  Certainly  not  the  law,  as  Niccolo  asserts ! " 
declared  Phil  decidedly.  "  Any  inquiry  of  that 
sort,  it  seems  to  me,  would  have  been  made  im- 
mediately after  the  disappearance  of  Pietro 
eight  months  ago." 

Kirke  sighed. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  that  I  knew  the  identity 
of  Niccolo's  stranger  and  whence  he  came ! " 

Fresh  from  their  morning  plunge  in  the  lake, 
the  Americans  strode  briskly  up  the  valley,  plan- 
ning a  long  walk  before  breakfast.  I  They  climbed 
to  the  ridge  of  a  mountain  at  the  north  and,  far 
above  the  gabled  village,  watched  the  sunlit  val- 
ley awake  to  the  activity  of  day.  The  early 
morning  was  murmurous  with  the  chirp  of  forest 
birds  and  the  rustling  of  leaves.  Kirke,  alive  to 
the  music  of  the  bird-chatter  about  him)v  caught 
the  sound  of  crackling  underbrush,  and  turn- 
ing, confronted  the  smiling  face  of  Beatrice  Lam- 
berti. 

"  I  watched  you  climbing,"  she  said  gaily, 
"  and  planned  to  invite  you  both  to  breakfast. 
But  you  look  entirely  too  hungry !  " 

"  Alas  for  the  duplicity  of  the  human  coun- 


152  TRAUMEREI 

tenance !  "  bemoaned  Phil.  "  I  am  as  delicately 
desirous  of  food  as  a  canary  bird." 

"  Then  you  may  come  to  breakfast,"  she 
granted  with  mock  graciousness,  "  and  you,  Sig- 
nore  Bentley?  " 

"  Both  truthful  and  hungry !  "  avowed  Signore 
Bentley  gravely. 

"  I  thought,"  she  observed  demurely,  "  that 
you  were  peculiarly  immune  to  the  pangs  of 
hunger ! " 

"  Only  at  twilight!  "  she  was  instantly  assured, 
and  Phil,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  was  a 
little  mystified  by  their  laughing  raillery. 

"  The  Dawn  is  very  capricious  these  summer 
mornings,"  the  girl  said  whimsically,  as  they  fol- 
lowed the  mountain  pathway  down  to  the  val- 
ley. "  She  stole  down  from  the  hills  this  morn- 
ing in  the  guise  of  a  monk,  cloaked  and  hooded 
in  deepest  grey,  a  devout  penitent  telling  her 
beads  in  drops  of  dew,  but  when  at  last  she  threw 
aside  the  cloak  in  which  she  had  been  masquerad- 
ing, she  stood  revealed  in  the  very  splendour  of 
a  Daughter  of  Fire." 

It  was  but  one  of  the  little  fancies  which  she 
so  often  voiced,  and  Kirke,  watching  her  as  she 
talked,  thought  that  she  too  was  a  daughter  of 
the  fire  as  daintily  capricious  as  the  Dawn  it- 
self and  as  full  of  moods  as  an  April  shower! 
She  flashed  at  times  from  indolence  to  energy 
and  from  mockery  to  impulsive  sympathy,  alive 


NICCOLO'S    VISITOR        153 

with  delicate  fire  one  instant  and  a  dangerous 
humility  the  next.  Her  quaint  fancies  fasci- 
nated Kirke;  they  had  (revealed  a  depth  of  im- 
agination and  a  nature  worship  which  sounded 
an  answering  note  in  himself,  f  "  Full  of  passion 
arid  poetry,"  Phil  had  once  described  her.  The 
phrase  was  an  apt  expression  of  the  dominant 
forces  within  her,  peculiarly  concise,  as  Mr. 
Ainsworth's  pointed  remarks  usually  were. 

The  little  breakfast-room  at  the  villa  was 
cheerily  alight  with  morning  sunshine.  It 
sparkled  upon  the  old  silver  and  shattered,  where 
the  glass  caught  its  slanting  rays,  into  a  rain- 
bow iridescence.  S ignore  Lamberti  sat  by  the 
table,  dreamily  watching  the  landscape  outside 
the  window.  The  deep  wine-red  of  a  velvet 
morning-coat  contrasted  strikingly  with  his  dark 
eyes  and  snowy  hair.  He  roused  at  the  sight 
of  the  Americans  and  greeted  them  warmly. 

"  I  am  indeed  glad  to  see  you  both ! "  he 
said  simply,  and  there  was  a  hint  in  his  deep 
voice  of  the  pleasure  their  growing  friendship 
had  given  him. 

"  Attention ! "  exclaimed  Phil  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  breakfast,  "the  Princess  Emilia 
has  decreed  that  we  visit  the  Blue  Grotto  to- 
day." 

"  Signore  Philip  himself  suggested  it!"  pro- 
tested the  old  lady  with  a  smile. 


154  T  R  A  U  M  E  K  E  I 

"And  the  details  of  this  conspiracy?"  ques- 
tioned Signore  Lamberti  good-humouredly. 

The  old  sister's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Delightful,  Dioneo !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  A 
ride  over  the  hills  in  Signore  Philip's  car  to  the 
Tyrrhenian  Sea,  where  two  boatmen,  selected 
by  Tony,  will  be  waiting  to  row  us  to  the 
Grotto." 

"  And  a  lunch  at  Capri! "  supplemented  Phil. 

"  I  should  like  it ! "  exclaimed  Signore  Lam- 
berti abruptly,  and  Kirke,  watching  the  sudden 
animation  in  the  Italian's  face  as  he  turned  to 
Phil  with  an  eager  question,  thought  again  of  the 
Stradivarius  hidden  away  in  his  trunk  at  the 
Villa  Spa  Gett,  and  frowned. 

In  spite  of  their  growing  intimacy  with  the 
Lambertis,  the  American  had  felt  a  curious  reti- 
cence on  the  subject  of  the  old  violin.  At  first 
he  had  attributed  it  to  his  brief  feeling  of  con- 
straint in  accepting  the  musician's  hospitality  as 
"Signore  Ainsworth's  friend!"  But  as  the 
friendship  grew,  cemented  by  a  letter  from 
Benedetto  Abbato  to  his  cousin,  in  which  the  en- 
thusiastic little  man  lauded  Philip  Ainsworth> 
Sr.,  to  the  skies  and  spoke  of  the  Bentleys  as 
"  one  of  the  first  families  of  America,  my  dear 
Dioneo,"  the  warmth  of  the  old  Italian's  hos- 
pitality had  speedily  banished  the  shadow. 
Still,  for  some  reason  Kirke  himself  could  not 
understand,  the  reticence  remained,  and  the 


NICCOLO'S    VISITOR        155 

subject  of  the  violin  was  studiously  avoided. 
Once  in  vague  alarm  he  had  even  warned  Phil, 
fearful  lest  his  friend  might  disclose  the  story  of 
his  purchase  to  the  old  Signorina. 

To-day  the  thought  of  the  Stradivarius  made 
him  vaguely  uncomfortable  and  dissatisfied. 
Despite  his  keen  desire  to  know  the  circum- 
stances of  its  original  disposal,  the  days  had 
glided  by  one  by  one  leaving  him  none  the  wiser. 
Now  a  stranger  who  had  paid  for  knowledge  of 
Pietro  Masetto  had  appeared  entangled  in  the 
silver  thread  to  which  the  American  had  fanci- 
fully likened  his  quest,  and  his  presence  seemed 
to  knot  it  into  bewildering  complexity. 

And  as  they  rose  from  the  breakfast  table, 
Kirke  mentally  repeated  the  words  he  had  ut- 
tered to  Phil  earlier  in  the  morning. 

"  I  wish,"  he  sighed,  "  that  I  knew  the 
identity  of  Niccolo's  stranger  and  whence  he 
came ! " 


ON  THE  CLIFFS 

RILEY  received  the  news  of  the  proposed  ex- 
cursion with  a  howl  of  delight,  rejoicing  in 
his  temporary  emancipation  from  the  kitchen. 
It  was  answered  at  the  bottom  of  the  trail  by 
another  yell  which  appeared  to  evolve  itself 
from  a  clatter  of  loose  boards  as  Tony,  recog- 
nising the  voice  of  the  Irishman  whom  he  re- 
garded as  a  kindred  spirit,  dashed  up  the  moun- 
tain road,  rattling  indiscriminately  over  stones 
and  rocks  with  scant  respect  for  his  decrepit 
cart.  He  alighted  with  a  spring  which  set  the 
feather  in  his  hat  to  bobbing  drunkenly  —  spread 
out  his  scarlet  tie  in  deference  to  the  honour  of 
his  reception  by  the  two  Americans  instead  of 
the  solemn  Englishman  with  the  watch-chain, 
and  presented  the  mail  and  papers  with  a  pro- 
found bow,  flashing  his  handsome  teeth  in  a 
broad  grin. 

In  response  to  Kirke's  inquiry,  it  speedily  de- 
veloped that  Tony  himself,  for  a  consideration 
which  he  would  leave  entirely  to  the  generous 
discrimination  of  his  employer,  would  row  EC- 
cellenza,  to  the  Blue  Grotto  and  bring  with  him 
another  boatman  whose  qualifications  as  a 

156 


ON     THE    CLIFFS  157 

mariner  were  second  only  to  his  own.  As  for 
himself,  well,  the  navigation  of  the  Tyrrhenian 
Sea  demanded  a  peculiar  genius,  and  Tony,  with 
his  usual  frank  versatility,  was  the  one  man  in 
all  Italy  who  possessed  that  genius  in  a  high 
degree.  In  this,  however,  as  in  all  other 
branches  of  business  involving  the  accumulation 
of  the  golden  medium  of  commerce,  he  was  a 
much  persecuted  man  owing  to  that  little .  con- 
spiracy, which  he  had  already  mentioned  to  EC- 
cellenza,  among  the  government  heads  to  pre- 
vent him  from  acquiring  even  the  smallest  coin 
unless  a  generous  foreigner  took  compassion 
upon  him.  Indeed  he  had  been  assured  more 
than  once  by  those  who  knew  that  the  maritime 
authorities  would  long  ago  have  made  use  of  his 
remarkable  scientific  knowledge  of  navigation 
as  the  captain  of  the  largest  and  swiftest  Ital- 
ian liner  in  the  country  but  for  the  insidious 
pressure  of  those  accursed  conspirators ! 

A  suitable  inn  in  Capri  for  luncheon?  It 
was  a  strange  and  notable  fact  that  Eccellenza 
invariably  questioned  him  upon  subjects  of 
which  with  all  modesty  he  might  claim  a  bet- 
ter knowledge  than  any  other  man  in  Italy. 
Should  he  ever  overcome  the  unreasonable  prej- 
udice against  him  at  court,  and  a  commission 
should  be  appointed  to  explain  the  general  con- 
dition of  inns  throughout  Italy  in  general  and 
Capri  in  particular,  Tony  would  undoubtedly  be 


158  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

the  head  of  that  commission  owing  to  his  ex- 
traordinary powers  of  observation,  inherited 
from  his  mother,  and  the  reliable  quality  inti- 
mated in  the  cognomen,  Truthful  Tony  —  in- 
herited from  no  one,  he  proudly  explained.  It 
was  a  direct  and  logical  result  of  an  over-con- 
scientious nature. 

Kirke  with  difficulty  controlled  his  face  as  the 
irresponsible  Italian  described  his  unusual  apti- 
tude. At  the  conclusion  he  gravely  suggested 
that  he  had  deemed  the  trip  to  the  Grotto  rather 
strenuous  for  a  man  who  had  decided  to  be  very 
careful  of  his  strength  during  the  summer 
months,  whereupon  the  Italian  informed  him, 
with  a  dare-devil  grin  on  his  handsome  face, 
that  he  had  just  finished  a  bottle  of  medicine  of 
such  extraordinary  excellence  that  but  for  his 
obligation  to  furnish  Eccellensa  each  morning 
with  his  papers  and  mail,  he  would  long  ago 
have  taken  advantage  of  its  tonic  results  to  be- 
come a  prize-fighter,  well  knowing  that  he  could 
speedily  rise  to  the  top  of  his  profession ! 

Phil,  delighted  with  the  magnificent  scale  of 
Tony's  mental  machinations,  would  have  encour- 
aged him  indefinitely,  but  Kirke,  well  knowing 
the  difficulty  of  stemming  the  tide  when  it  set 
in  in  this  fashion,  peremptorily  brought  the  ar- 
rangements to  a  definite  conclusion. 

Si!  Tony  would  meet  Eccellenza's  party  at 
eleven  o'clock,  a  mile  and  a  half  up  the  coast  from 


ON     THE     CLIFFS  159 

the  Beritola  road  where  he  had  once  discovered 
a  spot  peculiarly  fitted  for  embarkation.  Si! 
he  would  bring  with  him  that  human  reflection 
of  his  own  greatness  and  two  excellent  boats. 

"  And  mind  you,  Tony,"  advised  Kirke 
sternly,  "  see  that  the  boats  are  in  a  different 
class  from  that  cart!  There  will  be  ladies  with 
us." 

The  Italian  received  the  information  with  an 
impudent  wink  and  a  nod  of  his  head,  intimat- 
ing that  he  had  already  suspected  the  identity 
of  Eccellenza's  choice.  He  added  gravely  that 
Eccellenza  need  have  no  fear  of  the  boats  for  — 
and  this  was  in  the  nature  of  a  veiled  reproach  — 
although  the  cart  was  an  excellent  one  and  any- 
one who  had  any  knowledge  of  the  subject  equal 
to  his  own  could  see  that  for  himself,  it  was 
plainly  built  for  the  vicissitudes  of  land  and  its 
naval  counterpart  would  no  doubt  be  a  trifle 
leaky. 

"  Undoubtedly !  "  agreed  Kirke  with  the  ut- 
most gravity,  and  the  Italian  proceeded  to  add 
that  if  any  leaks  should  develop,  owing  to  the 
malicious  tampering  of  his  official  enemies  who 
were  most  perniciously  ingenious,  Eccellenza 
need  feel  no  alarm  whatever,  for  in  the  mending 
of  leaks,  as  in  all  other  things,  Tony  himself  was 
an  adept,  etc.,  etc. 

But  Kirke  peremptorily  checked  the  exposi- 
tion of  the  driver's  new  accomplishment  with  a 


160  TRAUMEREI 

stern  command  to  have  the  boats  perfect  or  for- 
feit his  fee,  and  Tony,  nodding  a  frantic  assent, 
drove  wildly  off,  increasing  his  usual  speed  that 
he  might  punctually  keep  his  appointment  with 
Eccellenza,  and  making  such  a  terrific  racket 
with  his  cart  that  Kirke  felt  a  growing  distrust 
in  the  Neapolitan's  chances  of  reaching  his  native 
city  alive. 

At  ten -thirty  Kiley  drove  up  to  the  Lamberti 
villa,  bearing  on  his  watch-chain  a  decorative 
concession  to  the  festal  nature  of  the  day  in  the 
form  of  Giacomo's  brass  button.  It  was  consist- 
ently fastened  by  a  knot  of  grocer's  cord  in  the 
Italian  colours. 

The  old  Signorina  was  in  a  state  of  excitement 
and  delight  which  the  others  soon  found  con- 
tagious. Kiley,  turning  to  assure  himself  that 
the  little  party  was  safely  seated,  found  her  ap- 
preciation of  his  beloved  Panhard  irresistible, 
and  with  a  magnificent  indifference  to  Italian 
speed  limits  proceeded  to  demonstrate  its  merits. 

The  big  car  whirred  and  hummed,  the  great 
lamps  catching  the  sun  in  blinding  flashes.  The 
breeze  ruffled  the  old  Signorina's  hair  into  a 
mist  about  her  face;  it  lashed  the  wrinkled 
cheeks  into  a  soft  coral  and  sent  the  folds  of  her 
black  gown  flapping  wildly  about  her.  She 
sighed  regretfully  when  Riley,  after  a  record- 
breaking  trip,  halted  the  car  a  mile  and  a  half 
above  the  Beritolian  road  where  Tony  and  his 


ON    THE    CLIFFS 

gifted  comrade  were  already  rocking  in  their 
boats,  their  faces  wreathed  in  companion  smiles 
of  welcome.  Riley,  who  immediately  shot  off 
in  the  direction  of  Naples,  had  been  offered  unre- 
stricted freedom  until  four  o'clock. 

"  Pasquale,"  said  Tony  significantly  to  his 
companion,  whose  grinning  face  was  quite  as 
satanic  in  its  suggestion  of  truth  and  honesty  as 
Tony's  own,  "  I  myself  shall  row  Eccellenza 
Bentley's  boat." 

Pasquale  assented  with  a  comprehensive 
broadening  of  his  bronze  face  into  a  grin,  an 
art  in  which  he  seemed  particularly  adept.  The 
Americans  noticed  with  considerable  amusement 
that  he  too  was  decked  out  in  a  dissolute  feather, 
bobbing  in  a  flapping  hat,  and  a  scarlet  tie  in 
careful  imitation  of  Truthful  Tony.  That 
ebullient  admirer  of  the  truth  was  dancing 
wildly  about  and  winking  surreptitiously  at 
Eccellenza  Bentley,  who  did  not  arrive  at  a 
complete  understanding  of  the  Italian's  facial 
contortions  until  they  pushed  off  from  the  shore 
when  Tony,  insolently  dropping  one  lid  over  a 
bold,  black  eye  in  the  direction  of  Beatrice  Lam- 
berti,  covertly  intimated  that  Eccellenza  could 
thank  him  for  the  fact  that  the  pretty  Signorina 
and  himself  were  together. 

It  speedily  became  evident  that  Tony  regarded 
himself  in  the  light  of  their  patron  saint.  He 
bent  over  his  oars  with  knowing  glances  and  in- 


162  TKAUMEREI 

termittent  chuckles  whose  meaning  was  unmis- 
takable. Kirke,  growing  momentarily  more  un- 
comfortable, frowned  severely  at  the  romantic 
boatman  who,  meeting  his  eyes  with  a  simian 
grin,  deliberately  ignored  the  warning  and  bent 
to  the  oars  with  sudden  daring. 

"  Eccellenza,"  he  said  in  an  undertone,  per- 
fectly audible  to  the  girl  who  had  turned  away 
with  twinkling  eyes,  "  I  shall  row  you  to  the 
Grotto  in  half  the  time  of  the  other  boat" — 
he  winked  impudently  — "  and  you  shall  be 
quite  alone  in  the  cave  of  blue  with  the 
pretty  Signorina.  You  will  not  mind  me,  for 
I  have  a  perfect  understanding  of  all  these 
things ! " 

Beatrice  coloured  a  little  but  her  eyes 
were  dancing.  Tony  was  in  his  most  ir- 
resistible mood.  Kirke,  struggling  with  a  min- 
gled feeling  of  annoyance  and  amusement,  strove 
to  voice  a  reply  that  would  suppress  the  Ital- 
ian, but  contented  himself  instead  with  a  threat- 
ening gesture. 

"  Pasquale,"  went  on  Tony  in  extreme  self- 
satisfaction  by  reason  of  the  widening  distance 
between  himself  and  the  grinning  object  of  his 
remark,  "  has  an  excellent  arm,  but  it  is  not 
like  this,  Ecceltensa  " —  he  dropped  his  oar  and 
proudly  displayed  a  strong  brown  arm  — "  that 
is  the  best  arm  in  all  Italy.  Pasquale,"  he 
added,  bending  to  his  oars  with  redoubled  vigour 


ON    THE     CLIFFS  163 

to  justify  his  modest  claim,  "  is  a  relative  of 
mine !  " 

Kirke  smiled  appreciatively.  Tony  had  de- 
veloped a  surprising  number  of  relatives  since 
the  arrival  of  the  Americans  in  Beritola,  The 
hotel  clerk  who  had  recommended  the  antique 
cart,  the  newsdealer  who  supplied  his  reading 
matter,  the  furniture  dealer  who  had  furnished 
the  Villa  Spa  Gett,  the  driver  of  the  van,  the 
canoe  dealer  to  whom  he  had  entrusted  a  recent 
commission,  and  now  Pasquale,  the  second  great- 
est man  in  all  Italy;  they  had  all  been  avowed 
relatives  of  the  dare-devil  Italian.  Tony's 
claims  of  kinsmanship,  however,  like  most  of  his 
other  extravagant  assertions,  were  typical  ex- 
pressions of  his  ingrained  truthfulness.  The 
American  had  scarcely  finished  his  mental 
resume  of  the  worthy  Neapolitan's  kinsmen 
when  Tony  airily  added  still  another  to  the  grow- 
ing list. 

"  The  innkeeper  at  Capri,"  he  suddenly  as- 
serted, "  where  you  will  find  by  far  the  best  food 
in  all  Italy,  is  my  uncle ; "  then,  catching  a 
twinkle  of  humour  in  Kirke's  eyes,  the  irre- 
sponsible Italian  suddenly  burst  into  an  immod- 
erate fit  of  laughter. 

"  Eccellenza  is  no  fool ! "  he  exclaimed,  and 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  he  added  reproach- 
fully, "and  Eccellenza  knows  well  that  I  speak 
nothing  but  the  truth.  My  uncle  at  Capri  keeps 


164  TRAUMEREI 

the  best  inn  in  Italy  and  prepares  food  for  the 
gods ! " 

Beatrice  listened  to  the  boatman's  extravagant 
remarks  with  secret  amusement.  She  was  quite 
unconscious,  however,  of  the  frantic  by-play 
that  went  on  when  she  looked  away.  Tony  in- 
stantly took  advantage  of  such  opportunities  to 
burst  into  a  pantomime  indicative  of  his  ap- 
proval of  Eccellensa's  choice,  and  Kirke  angrily 
signalled  him  to  be  quiet.  Occasionally  the 
Neapolitan  varied  the  monotony  of  his  gesticu- 
lations by  bending  forward  and  whispering  con- 
fidentially. 

"  Eccellenza,"  he  breathed  in  Kirke's  ear  on 
one  occasion,  "  I  have  told  Pasquale  to  talk 
much  of  a  great  rivalry  between  him  and  me  in 
rowing  that  Signore  Lamberti  may  think  that 
is  why  I  out-distance  him !  " 

His  face  revealed  a  Satanic  subtlety  and 
plainly  indicated  that  for  once  he  had  allowed 
his  interest  in  Eccellenza's  welfare  to  interfere 
with  his  inherent  love  of  the  truth. 

"  You  will  wait  for  Signore  Lamberti !  "  com- 
manded the  American  sternly,  "  as  I  have  told 
you  several  times  before,"  and  with  a  smile  of 
complete  understanding  Tony  lay  back  upon  his 
oars,  his  bold,  black  eyes  plainly  intimating  that 
he  would  wait  long  enough  to  allay  the  Sig- 
norina's  suspicions  and  clearly  prove  to  Signore 
Lamberti  that  it  was  not  Eccellenza  Bentley's 


ON     THE     CLIFFS  165 

fault  if  they  remained  ahead.  Eccellema  need 
not  fear,  however,  but  what  he  would  row  on  be- 
fore there  was  any  chance  whatever  of  being 
overtaken. 

In  spite  of  the  American's  stern  commands, 
however,  and  much  to  Tony's  satisfaction,  Pas- 
quale's  boat  was  but  a  dancing  speck  on  the 
waves  when  they  at  last  reached  their  destina- 
tion. Kirke  turned  to  his  boatman. 

"  Tony,"  he  said  peremptorily,  "  you've  chat- 
tered enough.  If  you  speak  once  after  we  enter 
the  Grotto,  I  shall  unhesitatingly  throw  you 
overboard." 

Tony  settled  into  complacent  silence.  Inter- 
fere with  Eccellenza's  wooing?  Not  he!  It 
might  affect  the  eventual  size  of  the  buono  mano 
in  the  discharge  of  which  Eccellenza  had  here- 
tofore been  consistently  generous. 

The  boat  glided  silently  through  the  entrance 
at  the  base  of  the  bluff.  As  they  shot  into  the 
wonder-cave,  Kirke  was  conscious  of  the  electric 
effect  the  beauty  of  the  Grotto  had  had  upon  the 
girl  at  his  side.  It  had  found  an  answering 
thrill  in  his  own  veins.  Each  was  silently 
thinking  that  the  famous  Grotto  had  never  be- 
fore possessed  quite  the  beauty  it  had  to-day. 
The  shadows  that  lay  athwart  the  water  were 
'deeply  sapphire. f  A  blue  gloom  hung  in  the 
great  furrows  overhead,  deepening  sombrely  at 
the  rear  Avhere  the  cavern  shelved  down  to  the 


166 

sea.  The  daylight  crept  through  the  tiny  en- 
trance in  a  shining  path  and  rimmed  the  arch- 
way overhead.  The  ceaseless  drip  of  water  alone 
broke  the  silence. 

'  "  The  Goddess  of  the  Blue  Grotto  has  broken 
her  necklace  of  Sapphires,"  whispered  Beatrice. 
"  Do  you  hear  them  dropping,  dropping,  drop- 
ping? That  is  why  the  water  is  so  blue.  It  is 
a  pool  of  molten  sapphire  fashioned  of  the  jewels 
the  Goddess  has  dropped  for  centuries.  It  was 
a  penalty  imposed  upon  her,"  she  added  whim- 
sically, "  for  stealing  the  blue  fire  of  the  South- 
ern sky  to  mould  them !  "  J 

The  American  felt  the  magnetism  of  the  girl 
Sweep  over  him  in  an  intoxicating  flood.  He  was 
strangely  attuned  to  her  mood  and  met  the  glance 
of  her  deep  eyes  with  silent  appreciation.  Once 
more  he  was  conscious  of  the  look  he  had  seen 
in  them  through  the  doorway  as  he  played  the 
Traumerei,  a  sympathetic  recognition,  irre- 
spective of  sex  or  age,  I  of  the  same  emotional 
forces  in  another  which  burned  so  passionately 
within  herself.  I 

Pasquale's  boat  presently  glided  with  a 
musical  dip  of  oars  into  the  pathway  of  light 
which  lay  across  the  waters  of  the  Grotto  from 
the  entrance  like  a  luminous  finger  of  the  sea, 
proudly  pointing  to  the  silent  retreat,  and  Aunt 
Emilia  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  gasp,  find- 
ing the  memory  of  many  years  inferior  to  the 


ON    THE     CLIFFS  167 

reality.  Signore  Lamoerti,  however,  leaned  for- 
ward in  silence,  his  eyes  mystically  alight  with  a 
fire  which  Kirke  rightly  interpreted.  It  was  in- 
tense pride  in  his  beloved  Italy,  of  which  this 
cave  of  sapphire  was  but  one  of  the  many  ex- 
pressions of  her  wondrous  beauty. 

"Italia  adorata!"  he  breathed  softly,  as  the 
two  boatmen  once  more  bent  to  their  oars  after 
a  rapt  silence  of  many  minutes  that  to  Tony  at 
least  had  been  interminable.  As  they  shot  out 
from  beneath  the  great  bluff  into  the  radiance 
of  the  summer  day,  the  Neapolitan  turned  to 
Pasquale  with  a  broad  grin  —  still  intent  upon 
Eccellenza  Bentley's  welfare. 

"  Pasquale,"  he  announced,  with  a  meaning 
look  at  Kirke,  "  as  I  said,  I  have  won,  rowing  to 
the  Cave  of  Blue  in  but  half  the  time !  " 

Pasquale  assented  with  one  of  the  series  of 
smiles  with  which  he  had  cheerfully  punctuated 
the  trip. 

"  It  would  seem,"  remarked  Signore  Lamberti 
pleasantly,  "  that  we  have  had  a  rowing  contest. 
Pasquale  has  talked  of  nothing  else,"  and  Tony, 
covertly  winking  his  approbation  at  his  grinning 
accomplice,  shot  a  significant  look  at  Kirke 
which  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "  Eccellensa  can 
see  for  himself  how  well  I  have  managed.  Sig- 
nore Lamberti  does  not  in  the  least  suspect." 

In  a  few  words  whose  severity  was  unmistak- 
able and  plainly  threatened  to  diminish  the  num- 


168  TRAUMEREI 

ber  of  gold  pieces,  Kirke  forbade  any  further  ex- 
hibitions of  oarsmanship,  and  with  one  or  two 
reproachful  glances,  Tony  kept  his  boat  at  the 
side  of  his  comrade  until  they  reached  Capri. 

The  innkeeper,  with  whom  Tony  was  straight- 
way obliged  out  of  respect  to  family  ties  to  have 
a  private  interview,  appeared  to  have  had  as 
much  of  the  divine  essence  of  truth  instilled  into 
his  veins  as  flowed  in  those  of  his  illustrious  rel- 
ative. With  the  exception  of  one  instance  when 
he  referred  to  his  dare-devil  nephew  as  "  my 
cousin  from  Naples,"  and  at  a  warning  look 
from  the  individual  in  question  tapped  his  fore- 
head sadly  and  bemoaned  a  curious  affliction 
which  twisted  his  tongue  so  that  it  failed  to  say 
the  thing  he  thought,  his  remarks  consistently 
corroborated  Tony's  extravagant  praise  of  his 
uncle's  inn  and  its  culinary  excellence.  Of  his 
commendation  of  the  latter,  he  was  entirely 
justified.  The  general  structure  of  the  inn,  how- 
ever, was  similar  to  that  of  Tony's  cart. 

They  lunched  amid  a  profusion  of  obsequious 
bows  from  the  innkeeper,  who  personally  at- 
tended them,  and  later,  still  bobbing  about  in 
frantic  obeisance,  followed  them  down  to  the 
boats,  where  he  engaged  in  another  mysterious 
discussion  with  his  nephew,  an  affectionate  weld- 
ing, no  doubt,  of  the  consanguineous  tie  between 
them,  and  sent  that  individual  away  in  rare 
good-humour. 


ON     THE     CLIFFS  169 

The  last  they  saw  of  Tony's  bland  and  bob- 
bing uncle,  he  was  still  bowing,  a  substantial 
figure  on  the  receding  shore  striving  to  intimate 
to  Eccellenza's  party,  by  a  series  of  intricate 
physical  contortions,  his  deep-rooted  conviction 
of  their  magnanimity  and  unusual  prestige.  Of 
his  opinion  of  his  handsome  nephew  from  Naples, 
the  less  said  the  better!  He  had  paid  a  hand- 
some price  for  his  brief  relationship  with  the 
worthy  Neapolitan  who  had  threatened  incon- 
tinently to  direct  Eccellenza  to  his  despised 
rival  across  the  way  if  a  commission  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  generous  advertisment  of  the  inn  were 
not  immediately  forthcoming. 

Across  the  water  lay  the  steep  cliffs  of  Sor- 
rento. At  a  word  from  Kirke,  Tony  rowed  to- 
ward the  shore  where  the  house  of  the  great 
Tasso  stood,  perched  dizzily  upon  the  heights 
overlooking  the  sea.  Beatrice  looked  up  at  the 
immortal  poet's  old  home  with  a  fluttering  col- 
our in  her  cheeks. 

"  It  is  Tasso's  house,"  she  said,  a  deep  rever- 
ence in  her  dark  eyes.  "  Signore  Bentley,  it  is 
holy  ground  in  spite  of  the  desecration  that 
comes  with  time !  " 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Kirke.  It  seemed  singularly 
fitting,  he  reflected,  that  this  girl  who  felt  so 
strongly  the  poetry  of  nature,  should  worship  at 
the  shrine  of  the  dead  man  whose  genius  has 
been  immortalised  in  the  Gerusallemma. 


170  TEAUMEREI 

"  I  have  seen  the  original  manuscript  of  the 
Gerusallemma  at  Ferrara,"  went  on  Beatrice, 
her  eyes  alight.  "  I  was  there,  Signore  Bent- 
ley,  when  you  first  came  to  Beritola.  It  even 
bears  the  corrections  in  Tasso's  handwriting. 
There  is  also,"  she  added,  "  some  of  the  Furioso 
in  Ariosto's  handwriting,  and  what  to  me 
seems  a  beautiful  appreciation,  it  bears  the 
marks  of  another  poet's  tribute  written  in 
the  words,  'Vittorio  Alfieri  beheld  and  ven- 
erated!'" 

She  repeated  the  words  reverently  and  turn- 
ing added,  "  You  too  have  perhaps  seen  them, 
Signore  Bentley?  It  was  foolish  of  me,  perhaps, 
but  I  went  to  Ferrara  with  my  cousin  for  that 
alone ! " 

"  Yes,"  assented  Kirke  quietly  — "  I  too  have 
seen  them ! " 

"  I  am  glad !  "  she  admitted  impulsively. 

She  little  realised  the  effect  her  words  had 
had  upon  the  American.  The  simple  confession 
of  her  visit  to  Ferrara  had  recalled  her  reticence 
the  night  Count  Teodoro  had  been  so  rudely  in- 
sistent. Then  she  had  withheld  what  she  had 
of  her  own  accord  spoken  of  to-day!  Had  she 
perhaps  recoiled  from  revealing  the  inner  sanc- 
tuary of  her  reverence  to  the  scientist?  With  a 
sudden  bounding  of  his  heart  Kirke  felt  that 
she  had  to-day  confessed  her  pilgrimage  of  rev- 
erence to  the  shrine  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto  be- 


ON    THE     CLIFFS  171 

cause  she  had  felt  that  he  would  understand  the 
spirit  in  which  she  had  gone. 

They  skirted  the  shore  on  the  homeward  trip. 
I  At  the  north  the  coast  grew  wild  and  lonely, 
banked  by  steep  cliffs  against  which  the  sea 
broke  in  a  line  of  froth.  The  peaks  of  the 
mountain  range  which  leads  from  Beritola  to 
the  sea  loomed  presently  into  sight!  and  a  man 
appeared  walking  slowly  along  the  cliffs.  He 
turned  at  the  sound  of  their  oars  and  started  vio- 
lently. 

"  II  Signore  Conte! "  announced  Tony,  with  a 
queer  glance  at  Kirke  and  a  sly  grin  of  amuse- 
ment. Eccellenza's  game  was  indeed  compli- 
cated ! 

Kirke  fancied  that  the  Italian  upon  the  cliffs 
was  annoyed  by  the  chance  meeting.  Count 
Teodoro,  however,  returned  their  greeting  with  a 
wave  of  his  arm  and  smiled  down  upon  them  im- 
perturbably. 

"  I  should  not  mind  Count  Teodoro,"  advised 
Tony  in  a  friendly  undertone  as  the  boats 
glided  on,  "he  is  much  too  fat  to  be  loved. 
Besides,"  he  cast  a  sly  look  at  Beatrice,  "the 
pretty  Signorina  may  know  the  wisdom  of 
jealousy." 

Was  there  no  limit  to  the  Neapolitan's  au- 
dacity? Kirke,  acutely  conscious  of  the  girl's 
heightened  colour,  frowned  savagely  at  the  Ital- 
ian matchmaker.  It  had  no  effect  whatever. 


172  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

Tony  bent  to  his  oars  with  a  flourish  and  a  grin, 
adding  quite  calmly: 

"  'Tis  always  well,  Eccellenza,  to  play  one 
against  the  other.  Well  do  I  know!  On  occa- 
sion I  parade  past  Peronella's  house  with  Maria 
Sazzano  on  my  arm.  Corpo!  she  has  freckles 
and  weighs  as  much  as  a  man  " —  Tony  shrugged 
his  disgust  — "  but  the  sight  of  her  with  me  is  a 
good  one  for  Peronella.  It  teaches  her  that  I 
am  not  to  be  trifled  with ! "  He  feathered  his 
oars  with  conspicuous  airiness,  adding  with  a 
deep  chuckle,  "  Eccellenza  is  wise  that  he  selects 
a  Signorina  whose  mother  is  no  more.  Peronella 
has  a  mother  with  but  few  teeth,  a  godless  old 
creature  who  objects  to  the  rattling  of  my  cart." 

Kirke  speedily  forgot  the  man  upon  the  cliffs. 
Phil,  however,  turned  and  watched  the  figure  of 
the  nobleman  silhouetted  against  the  sky.  For 
an  instant  Count  Teodoro  calmly  watched  the  re- 
treating boats ;  then  with  an  odd  gesture  —  could 
it  have  been  anger?  —  he  flung  his  cigar  into  the 
sea. 

Phil  turned  to  answer  a  laughing  question  of 
Aunt  Emilia's  and,  when  he  looked  back,  to  his 
intense  astonishment,  Count  Teodoro  was  gone! 

The  American  stared  incredulously  at  the  re- 
treating cliffs.  Barely  an  instant  had  his  eyes 
left  the  spot.  In  that  brief  period,  however,  all 
trace  of  Count  Teodoro  had  vanished.  Had  the 
Italian  availed  himself  of  that  fleeting  instant  to 


ON    THE     CLIFFS  173 

hide?  Impossible!  decided  the  American.  The 
barren  line  of  cliffs  offered  no  such  opportunity 
unless  one  descended  a  series  of  rude  projections 
to  the  sea  and  swam  into  one  of  the  many  caves 
that  honeycombed  the  coast. 

A  hoarse  honk!  honk!  presently  resounded 
from  the  north  where  Riley  waited  with  the  Pan- 
hard.  It  presaged  the  end  of  a  pleasant  day. 
Reflecting  that  Count  Teodoro's  puzzling  disap- 
pearance was  but  one  of  many  inexplicable  things 
about  him,  Phil,  in  spite  of  a  certain  startled  in- 
terest, dismissed  the  subject  with  a  shrug  and 
sent  a  sharp  halloo  ringing  across  the  water  to 
Kiley. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  STORY  OP  A  VIOLIN 

KIEKE  had  found  Signore  Lambert!  an  in- 
teresting study,  a  man  full  of  pride  in  his 
ancestors  and  pride  in  his  native  land  —  Italia 
adorata,  as  he  reverently  called  it  —  the  favour- 
ite of  art  and  of  nature,  and  the  chosen  amphi- 
theatre of  history! 

The  old  villa  abounded  in  evidences  of  Italy's 
creative  greatness.  Framed  copies  of  its 
famous  paintings,  adaptations  of  sculptured 
forms  and  a  cherished  hoard  of  photographs 
which  reproduced  the  best  work  of  many  cen- 
turies, attested  a  patriotism  that  was  in  reality 
an  artistic  form  of  Chauvinism. 

Pride  in  country  and  ancestors,  however,  pow- 
erful forces  though  they  were,  were  as  nothing 
to  the  old  Italian's  passionate  love  of  music. 
He  spent  hours  at  the  old  piano,  dreamily  play- 
ing over  the  melodies  within  him  that  sought  ex- 
pression, quite  content,  when  the  first  reserve  had 
worn  away,  that  Kirke  should  listen.  In  the 
Italian's  more  impassioned  moods,  Kirke,  watch- 
ing the  deft  play  of  the  long,  slim  fingers,  fancied 
that  the  player  instilled  into  the  harmony  that 
crept  out  from  the  old  instrument  something 

174 


175 

of  the  fire  that  burned  in  his  eyes.  At  such 
times  the  American  found  himself  fascinated  by 
the  resemblance  between  the  man  at  the  piano 
and  Camillo  Lamberti,  whose  blazing  eyes  looked 
down  over  his  violin  from  the  painting  upon  the 
wall. 

There  was  a  touch  of  the  Southern  melan- 
choly in  the  musician's  face  at  times  which  van- 
ished instantly  when  his  interest  was  aroused. 
Always  then  the  spark  of  enthusiasm  kindled 
the  fire  of  youth  in  his  eyes  and  smoothed  away 
the  lines  of  age  about  his  mouth  with  a  smile 
whose  radiance  was  irresistible. '  A  nature  full 
of  fire  and  passion  and  tenderness,t  shrouded  in 
the  dignity  of  reserve  with  which  pride,  tradi- 
tion, and  a  long  seclusion  from  the  world,  had 
armoured  a  man  who  was  perhaps  too  prone  to 
live  within  himself,  content  with  the  solitary  ex- 
altation of  his  own  dreams.  His  powerful  mag- 
netism won  and  held  first  Kirke's  friendship  and 
later  the  deepest  respect  and  affection  of  his 
ardent  nature.  It  would  have  surprised  the 
American  not  a  little  had  he  known  that  the 
older  man  with  the  experience  of  his  years  had 
been  touched  by  his  veneration  and,  looking  be- 
neath the  superficial  expression,  had  found  its 
well  spring  in  a  pride  and  reserve  equal  to  his 
own,  tempered  a  little,  perhaps,  by  the  widely 
different  habits  of  a  life-time. 

And  in  their  growing  intimacy,  the  opportu- 


176  TKAUMEREI 

nity  which  Kirke  had  so  anxiously  awaited  and 
recoiled  from  seeking,  to  learn  the  story  of  the 
Stradivarius,  came  of  its  own  accord ! 

Kirke  had  joined  the  Italian  in  the  old  rose- 
garden  behind  the  villa  and  had  found  him  in  an 
unusually  thoughtful  mood  -4-  a  dreamer  in  a 
wilderness  of  roses.  The  wind,  rustling  the 
bushes,  had  flaked  the  grass  with  drifting  col- 
our, weaving  a  vivid  mosaic  of  emerald  and 
rose  about  his  feet.  The  quiet  of  the  warm  Sab- 
bath was  broken  only  by  the  chapel  bell  and  the 
chirping  of  the  birds  in  the  orange  groves. f 
Kirke  felt  the  languor  of  the  heat  filtering 
through  his  veins.  Lulled  into  content  by  the 
drowsy  calm  of  the  day,  he  watched  the  peas- 
ants trooping  by  on  their  way  to  the  lakeside 
chapel.  The  peasant  women,  gaily  clad  in 
bright  bodices  and  bits  of  coral  jewellery,  gave 
to  the  landscape  a  sensuous  appeal  of  life  and 
colour.  To  the  fancy  of  the  American,  strongly 
caught  to-day  by  the  lure  of  the  South,  the  pic- 
ture needed  but  this  tranquil  rose-garden  with 
its  flood  of  colour  and  the  white-haired  Ital- 
ian in  its  midst,  lying  back  in  his  chair  and 
dreamily  matching  his  finger  tips,  to  make  it 
perfect. 

Impulsively  Kirke  voiced  his  hearty  apprecia- 
tion of  the  charm  of  the  Southern  day  and  the 
old  musician  listened  with  the  fire  of  pride 
kindling  in  his  eyes.  It  swiftly  faded  out,  how- 


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,A  ^J?) 


STORY     OF     A     VIOLIN        177 

ever,  and  left  him  quite  as  thoughtful  as  before. 
Kirke,  finding  it  impossible  to  rouse  him  from 
his  reverie,  Velapsed  again  into  silence,  a  priv- 
ilege born  of  their  sympathy  and  understanding./ 
The  sound  of  the  chapel  organ  and  the  voices 
of  the  peasants  chanting  in  worship  floated 
faintly  to  them  with  a  sudden  breeze,  and 
the  Italian  shifted  restlessly  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

"  There  is  no  music,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  like 
the  strains  one  can  bring  from  a  violin  of  the 
old  master's  making!  Signore  Bentley,  you  as 
a  player  are  interested  in  violins!  Would  you 
like  to  hear  about  a  very  wonderful  instrument, 
an  heirloom  of  my  own  family?  " 

"  I  would,  indeed !  " 

The  warmth  of  interest  in  the  American's 
tone  plainly  pleased  him.  He  smiled  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair,  falling  presently  into  a  reverie 
which  to  Kirke,  afire  with  curiosity,  seemed  never 
ending. 

"  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  Camillo  Lam- 
berti,  Signore  Bentley? "  he  began  at  length. 
"  Yes,  of  course !  He  was  a  musician  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  His  picture  hangs  on  the 
wall  behind  the  piano,  painted  by  his  unfortunate 
brother  Niccolo.  Tradition  says  that  he  had  a 
genius  in  expressing  his  emotions  on  the  violin 
that  has  never  been  equalled  since ! 

"  What  I  am  about  to  tell  you  occurred  at  the 


178  TRAUMEREI 

zenith  of  his  unique  career.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
Signore  Bentley,  with  the  true  Lamberti  stamp, 
the  black  eyes  and  brows  and  the  snowy  hair 
which  comes  to  each  Lamberti  when  he  passes 
the  half-century  mark.  It  is  our  way  of  grow- 
ing old.  So  much  of  life's  frost  falls  upon  our 
hair  that  there  is  none  left  for  the  eyebrows  be- 
neath. He  was  very  eccentric,  this  ancestor  of 
mine,  with  the  title  of  Count  inherited  from  his 
father.  This  he  ignored  entirely,  calling  him- 
self by  the  untitled  name  of  Camillo  Lamberti. 
He  spent  his  life  in  travelling  about  from  city 
to  city  giving  violin  concerts  at  which  he  played 
nothing  but  his  own  compositions.  Of  the  enor- 
mous proceeds  resulting,  he  gave  every  soldo  to 
the  poor  of  the  city  in  which  the  concert  had 
been  held,  personally  supervising  the  disburse- 
ment." The  Italian  paused  and  coloured  faintly. 
"In  those  days,  my  boy,"  he  added  with  quiet 
dignity,  "  the  Lambertis  had  no  need  to  think 
of  money!  Camillo  travelled  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Italy  and  his  name  was  loved  by  every 
Italian.  Wherever  he  went  there  was  relief  for 
the  poor  and  pleasure  for  the  thousands  of 
music  lovers  who  flocked  to  hear  his  original 
melodies.  These  he  published  from  time  to 
time,  founding  with  the  proceeds  a  school  of 
music  in  Milan,  in  which  genius  could  be  de- 
veloped without  the  aid  of  money.  The  institu- 
tion has  long  since  died  out.  There  have  been 


STORY    OF    A    VIOLIN        179 

no  more  Camillo  Lambertis  to  offer  their  gen- 
erous assistance. 

"  He  was  intensely  patriotic,  this  ancestor  of 
mine,  flatly  refusing  to  play  before  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe  because  they  were  not  Ital- 
ians! On  the  other  hand,  tradition  has  it  that 
he  would  stop  on  his  way  to  a  concert  to  play 
for  any  crowd  of  ragged  youngsters  who  begged 
for  music,  often  keeping  his  fashionable  audi- 
ences waiting  indefinitely.  They  were  Italians, 
Signore  Bentley,  and  he  would  not  have  dreamt 
of  refusing  them. 

"  The  painting  behind  the  piano  was  the  cause 
of  a  great  tragedy  in  his  life  which,  strangely 
enough,  gave  a  passionate  impetus  to  his  gift. 
His  brother  Niccolo,  a  lad  so  many  years 
younger  than  himself  that  Camillo's  deep  affec- 
tion for  him  bore  in  it  something  of  the  pater- 
nal, developed  as  he  grew  older  an  unusual  tal- 
ent in  art.  The  brothers  met  in  Florence  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  artist's  student  days.  Fired 
by  the  picturesque  charm  of  the  violinist,  Nic- 
colo painted  his  picture.  He  was  but  twenty- 
two  at  the  time  and  the  painting  was  the  first, 
and  alas !  the  last  expression  of  a  gift  which  was 
as  great  in  its  way  as  that  of  his  older  brother. 

"  The  artist  proudly  exhibited  this  painting 
of  his  brother  to  a  girl  who  had  never  seen  the 
original,  a  girl  to  whom  he  had  secretly  given 
the  best  of  his  life,  little  foreseeing  the  tragic 


180  TRAUMEREI 

result.  A  curious  infatuation  seized  her  as  she 
looked  upon  the  vivid  contrasts  of  the  painting 
and  in  the  end  she  travelled  many  miles  for  one 
glimpse  of  the  man  whose  burning  eyes  had 
looked  forth  at  her  from  the  canvas.  The  orig- 
inal she  found  more  than  equal  to  his  portrait. 
Nay,  more,  the  very  strains  of  his  violin  en- 
thralled her  and  a  great  passion  welled  up  within 
her  for  the  musician  whose  melodies  thrilled  and 
agitated  her.  She  followed  him  from  town  to 
town  until  —  it  is  not  a  pretty  story,  Signore 
Bentley !  —  Niccolo  Lamberti,  with  the  un- 
bridled passion  of  the  Italian,  shot  both  her  and 
himself,  filling  his  brother's  soul  with  horror 
and  remorse,  although  as  the  artist  well  knew, 
he  was  in  no  way  responsible  for  the  girl's  con- 
duct or  the  horrible  tragedy  that  had  followed. 

"  So  the  violinist  toured  about  seeking  to  for- 
get the  boy  whose  life  had  gone  out  in  a  mad 
burst  of  passion,  playing  here,  playing  there, 
wherever  fancy  led  him,  sending  thrills  of  ec- 
stasy through  his  hearers  as  his  bow  struck  the 
strings  in  a  flood  of  wailing  melody,  often  tell- 
ing, some  said,  the  story  of  the  dead  boy  he  had 
so  loved  and  as  often  passionately  rebelling 
against  the  fate  that  had  so  entangled  the 
threads  of  three  lives.  Always  he  left  with  the 
blessings  of  the  town's  poor  upon  his  head.  So 
in  time,  with  the  grief  still  fresh  in  his  heart,  he 
arrived  in  the  little  town  of  Cremona  where 


STORY    OF    A    VIOLIN        181 

dwelt  the  master  of  violin-makers,  Antonius 
Stradivarius.  You,  of  course,  have  heard  of 
him,  Signore  Bentley?  The  whole  world  knows 
him! 

"  Whether  the  tragedy  of  his  life  overcame 
him,  I  know  not,  but  certainly  it  is  said,  no 
mortal  man  ever  before  evoked  such  music  as 
wailed  its  way  to  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  that 
night  in  Cremona.  It  was  a  powerful  outpour- 
ing of  fire  and  tenderness  that  was  followed  first 
by  a  mighty  hush  and  later  by  the  thunderous 
applause  of  a  multitude  rising  to  their  feet  with 
one  accord  in  a  passion  of  excitement.  Women 
sobbed  aloud  and  then,  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
tumult,  a  tall,  thin  man  with  a  fringe  of  silver 
hair  protruding  from  beneath  a  black  cap  was 
seen  making  his  way  to  the  front.  He  was 
deeply  agitated  and  fiercely  brushed  away  the 
tears  that  coursed  slowly  down  his  thin  cheeks. 
He  approached  the  violinist  and  wrung  his  hand 
in  a  grasp  of  iron. 

" '  Man,  man  alive,'  he  cried  in  trembling 
tones,  '  it  is  a  wonderful  gift  God  has  given  you. 
I  am  going  to  make  you  a  violin,  a  wonderful 
violin,  so  wonderful  that  even  you  will  marvel 
at  its  tones.'  He  turned  to  the  breathless  au- 
dience, '  Wait,  wait,'  he  cried,  '  until  the  world 
hears  the  magic  music  of  the  violin  that  An- 
tonius Stradivarius  makes  for  Camillo  Lam- 
berti.' 


182  TRAUMEREI 

"  And  again  a  roar  of  applause  burst  from  the 
excited  throng. 

"  Two  deep  red  spots  glowed  upon  his  thin 
cheeks;  he  was  in  a  fever  of  enthusiasm  and  hur- 
ried the  violinist  away  to  his  shop  where  they 
talked  far  into  the  night.  And  so  the  arrange- 
ments were  made! 

"  In  those  days,  Signore  Bentley,  the  Lam- 
bertis  lived  in  castles.  Camillo  lived  in  the 
castle  overlooking  the  valley  of  Beritola,  my 
own  home  in  my  earlier  years,  the  castle  in  which 
at  present  dwells  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito." 

Kirke  looked  at  the  Italian  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  the  musician,  quietly  meeting 
his  look,  "  that  was  my  home.  To  his  castle 
then  journeyed  Camillo  Lamberti  and  that  great 
master  of  violin-makers,  Antonius  Stradivarius, 
where  with  his  own  hands  the  master  gathered 
wood  from  the  forests  behind  the  castle,  gath- 
ered sycamore  for  the  back  and  sides,  and  the 
finest  of  pine  for  the  belly  and  sound-bar,  ap- 
proving the  whim  of  the  violinist  that  his  new 
instrument  should  be  made  from  the  wood  of  his 
own  forests.  It  is  said  that  the  two  men  found 
the  dead  artist's  initials  carved  on  a  sycamore 
tree  and  that  at  the  sight  of  it  Camillo's  face 
went  white.  It  was  the  wood  of  this  tree  that 
was  used  to  make  the  violin. 

"  Back  in  Cremona,  Camillo  Lamberti  sat 
every  day  in  the  master's  workshop,  watching  the 


STORY    OF    A    VIOLIN        183 

progress  of  his  violin,  even  fashioning  some  of 
the  minor  parts  with  his  own  hands.  Eccentric 
in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  he  had  a  certain 
plan  for  the  structure  of  the  instrument  which 
the  master  faithfully  executed.  The  two  curves 
in  the  centre  of  the  sides  were  made  into  panels 
which  opened  upon  silver  hinges  by  the  pressure 
of  a  spring.  On  the  inside  of  one  the  master  in- 
scribed the  name  of  the  owner  and  the  date;  on 
the  other  his  own  name  and  the  date  of  com- 
pletion, an  ingenious  contrivance  that  Stradi- 
varius  alone  could  have  fashioned  without  inter- 
fering in  any  way  with  the  sound.  The  violin 
is  the  Dolphin  type  and  critics  have  since  de- 
clared that  it  is  by  all  odds  the  finest  specimen 
the  master  ever  made.  I  doubt  if  there  is  an- 
other instrument  in  the  world  with  such  pow- 
erful singing  tones. 

"  Into  the  varnish,  tradition  says,  the  master 
dropped  twenty-two  drops  of  a  liquid  gold,  one 
for  each  year  of  the  dead  boy's  life,  and  with  a 
sudden  whim  that  the  violin  was  a  singing  me- 
morial of  his  brother's  tragic  death,  fashioned 
as  it  was  from  the  tree  upon  which  the  boy  had 
carved  his  initials,  Camillo  Lamberti  dropped 
as  many  drops  of  his  own  life's  blood  in  the  var- 
nish to  mingle  with  the  gold.  I  have  fancied  at 
times  that  I  have  caught  the  glint  of  each  in  the 
curious  colour  that  resulted. 

"  Stradivarius  refused  to  accept  any  remuner- 


184  TRAUMEREI 

ation.  He  demanded,  instead,  the  promise  that 
the  musician  would  never  touch  another  violin. 
The  promise  was  willingly  given  and  kept.  As 
the  master  finished  the  instrument,  he  im- 
pulsively tore  off  the  white  leather  apron  in 
which  he  had  worked  and  wrote  his  name  across 
it  in  letters  of  gold. 

"  '  There ! '  he  cried,  '  it  has  known  but  the 
touch  of  the  best  instrument  Antonius  Stradi- 
varius  will  ever  make  and  it  shall  know  no 
other ! ' 

"  I  have  to-day  the  old  soiled  apron  of  white 
leather  and  the  pint  measure  with  which  he 
gauged  the  cubic  contents.  You  have  doubtless 
heard  that  the  old  Cremona  violins  were  built  to 
contain  a  certain  quantity  of  wheat  or  whatever 
medium  the  maker  chose  to  use. 

"  Tradition  has  it  that  at  the  death  of  the 
great  Oamillo  his  soul  was  imprisoned  in  the 
wonderful  instrument  he  had  loved  so  well  and 
that  to-day  whoever  possesses  it,  no  ill  luck  can 
harm  him.  Nay,  more,  it  is  said  to  bring  bless- 
ings to  the  lucky  owner  and  inevitable  misfor- 
tune to  the  loser.  And  verily,  Signore  Bentley, 
there  would  seem  to  be  some  truth  in  it,  for  it 
has  come  down  through  the  centuries  blessing 
many  of  my  ancestors.  It  was  willed  to  me  at 
the  death  of  my  uncle  ten  years  ago.  I  —  I 
loved  it  even  as  the  great  Camillo  himself  loved 
it—" 


STORY     OP     A     VIOLIN        185 

"And  now?"  prompted  Kirke  slowly. 

The  Italian  rose  and  laid  a  trembling  hand 
upon  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Stolen,  my  boy,"  he  said  brokenly,  fiercely 
shaking  his  white  hair  back  from  his  forehead, 
"  eight  months  ago  by  God  knows  whom,  and 
God  have  mercy  on  the  thief ! " 

The  American,  fearing  the  effect  of  his  own 
story  upon  the  high-strung  old  fellow  who  had 
sank  back  in  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  slipped 
noiselessly  away.  It  was  quite  enough,  he  told 
himself  impetuously,  to  know  that  the  instru- 
ment had  been  stolen  and  that  now  it  lay 
secure  in  his  own  trunk.  True,  there  were 
knots  in  the  silver  thread  that  he  could  not 
yet  unravel,  but  indifferently  he  shrugged 
them  all  away,  his  resolve  to  restore  the 
instrument  to  Signore  Lamberti  at  once  un- 
shaken. 

The  strange  old  instrument  he  had  purchased 
in  America  had  plaintively  voiced  a  brother's 
mourning;  it  had  been  fashioned  in  fitting  me- 
morial to  the  boy  whose  genius  had,  in  a  meas- 
ure, led  to  his  violent  death!  Yes,  there  had 
been  something  of  Niccolo's  wild  nature  in  the 
vivid  contrasts  of  his  single  painting  and  Kirke 
found  his  story  inexpressibly  pathetic.  The  red 
and  gold  he  had  so  often  caught  in  the  varnish? 
It  had  found  its  explanation  in  the  story  of  the 


186  TEAUMEREI 

two  brothers  whose  genius  had  swiftly  entangled 
them  in  the  web  of  tragedy. 

Now  after  a  lapse  of  two  centuries  an  Ameri- 
can was  to  add  another  chapter  to  the  history 
of  the  Stradivarius !  Breathlessly  Kirke  climbed 
the  trail  to  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  —  bounded  up  to 
his  room  and  unlocked  his  trunk,  thrilling  at  the 
contact  of  his  fingers  with  the  case  that  pro- 
tected Camillo  Lamberti's  precious  violin.  Im- 
patiently he  flung  the  lid  back  and  the  case 
dropped  from  his  hand  with  a  heavy  crash.  He 
saw  only  the  worn  red  satin  of  the  lining.  The 
wonderful  Stradivarius  was  gone! 


fc 


H  O 
<  O 
</)  o; 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  SELF-INQUISITOR 

\\7  ITH  burning  eyes  the  American  traced  the 
*  *  outline  of  the  empty  case  lying  at  his  feet, 
a  curious  stupor  dulling  his  senses.  Me- 
chanically he  brushed  his  hair  back  from 
his  forehead  with  an  odd  feeling  that  it 
would  clear  his  brain  and  still  the  throbbing 
at  his  temples.  The  empty  case  still  mocked 
him,  however,  and  gradually  as  the  full 
significance  flashed  over  him,  he  grew  very 
white. 

Gone!  —  that  was  of  course  impossible.  It 
was  there  somewhere  in  the  trunk.  Flushed 
with  sudden  hope,  he  dropped  upon  his  knees 
and  searched  in  growing  dread,  unnerved  by  the 
horror  of  presentiment.  But  search  as  he 
might,  there  was  no  trace  of  the  violin  in  which 
legend  declared  the  soul  of  Camillo  Lamberti  to 
be  imprisoned,  and  as  the  empty  trunk  finally 
forced  conviction  upon  him,  he  staggered  back 
as  if  some  one  had  struck  him  heavily  in  the 
face.  As  in  a  dream  he  realised  that  some  one 
had  entered  the  room  and  laid  a  firm  hand  af- 
fectionately upon  his  shoulder.  Turning,  he 
stared  vacantly  into  Phil's  face,  vaguely  con- 

187 


188  TEAUMEKEI 

scious  of  an  unwonted  gravity  in  the  eyes  that 
met  his. 

"  It  has  been  stolen,  of  course ! "  Phil  said 
quietly,  stooping  to  pick  up  the  empty  case,  "  but 
who  knew  you  had  it?  " 

"  God  knows !  "  Kirke  sat  down  heavily,  and 
frowned  in  an  effort  to  control  his  thoughts. 
"  Nobody,  to  my  knowledge !  Certainly  a  merci- 
ful Providence  restrained  my  tongue  this  morn- 
ing. Several  times  I  was  on  the  verge  of  tell- 
ing Signore  Lamberti  the  whole  story." 

Roused  from  his  lethargy  by  the  insistent 
questions  of  his  chum,  Kirke  repeated  the  his- 
tory of  the  Stradivarius  as  he  had  heard  it  that 
morning,  finding  a  certain  relief  in  the  tell- 
ing. 

"  So,"  commented  Phil  thoughtfully,  "  there's 
a  superstition  attached  to  your  wonderful  fid- 
dle that  whoever  possesses  it  is  immune  to  the 
poisoned  arrows  of  Fate.  It's  a  queer  yarn, 
Kirke!" 

He  began  a  methodical  tramp  about  the  room, 
pausing  at  intervals  to  stare  absently  from  the 
window.  There  was  an  odd  expression  about  his 
mouth  and  his  eyes  glittered  unpleasantly. 

"  See  here,  Kirke,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I'd  like 
to  play  the  detective  in  this  case.  No  —  don't 
look  so  hopeful.  It  isn't  because  I  know  where 
your  Stradivarius  is,  for  I  haven't  the  remotest 
idea.  I'd  rather  not  tell  you  about  it  if  you 


A    SELF-INQUISITOR        189 

don't  mind  until  it's  received  some  sort  of  cor- 
roboration.  Will  you  trust  me?  " 

For  answer  Kirke  held  out  his  hand  and  Phil 
looked  relieved. 

"  Grazie! "  he  said  quietly.  "  I  hope  I  may 
be  able  to  justify  your  confidence."  Whistling 
cheerfully,  he  tumbled  the  crumpled  clothing 
back  into  the  trunk  and  hid  the  empty  violin 
case  in  his  own  room. 

Kirke,  smoking  nervously  by  his  bedroom  win- 
dow, presently  watched  his  chum  descend  the 
trail  into  the  valley  and  wander  nonchalantly 
in  the  direction  of  the  Ciapelletto  cottage.  As 
usual  Phil  was  bareheaded  —  his  hands  shoved 
deep  into  his  trousers  pockets.  From  the  cot- 
tages he  passed  came  shrill  cries  of  welcome  to 
which  he  responded  with  the  good-natured  sal- 
lies which  had  made  him  such  a  favourite. 
Man,  woman  and  child,  he  knew  them  all  and 
often  wandered  in  and  out  of  their  cottages, 
tasting  the  strange  concoctions  of  food  they  of- 
fered him  and  frankly  expressing  his  dislike  in 
wry  faces  that  sent  the  peasants  into  screams  of 
laughter.  Most  of  them  called  him  "  the  mad 
American ! " 

Kirke's  eyes  wandered  from  the  retreating 
figure  of  his  chum  to  the  castle  of  Count  Teo- 
doro  di  Gomito,  stretched  along  the  ridge  in  a 
glow  of  sunshine.  The  ancestral  home  of  the 
Lambertis !  Yes,  the  silent  revelation  of  the  old 


190  T  K  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

rooms  in  the  deserted  wing  was  in  keeping  with 
the  personality  of  the  old  Italian  who  had  clung 
so  loyally  to  the  traditions  of  his  ancestors. 
Fate  had  capriciously  put  Signore  Lamberti's 
beloved  heirlooms  into  the  hands  of  two  men 
who  had  been  instinctively  antagonistic  from  the 
first! 

A  host  of  puzzling  questions  arose  in  the 
American's  mind.  What  was  Count  Teodoro's 
claim  to  the  Lamberti  castle?  What  had  im- 
poverished this  family  of  one  time  wealth  and 
distinction?  .  .  .  Did  Signore  Lamberti 
too  possess  a  title  which  with  inherited  eccen- 
tricity he  ignored?  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course! 
If  the  Signorina  Beatrice  became  la  Contessa 
di  Gomito,  she  would  go  back  to  live  in  the 
home  of  her  own  ancestors!  Kirke  shuddered. 
Well,  what  if  she  did?  he  asked  himself  defiantly. 
What  difference  would  it  make  to  Kirke  Bent- 
ley  what  this  beautiful  Italian  girl  chose  to  do 
with  her  life? 

One  by  one  a  series  of  pictures  rose  before  the 
American,  projected  before  him  by  the  vivid 
power  of  memory.  The  moonlit  lake,  Noc- 
turnia  darting  across  in  a  silver  trail  to  her 
guard  of  fireflies,  the  fading  outline  of  the  dream 
church  from  which  the  strains  of  the  Trdumerei 
had  swept  across  through  the  twilight  shadows 
to  the  man  on  the  other  shore;  these  were  re- 
placed in  turn  by  the  rose-glow  of  a  candle  il- 


A    SELF-INQUISITOR        191 

lumining  the  thoughtful  face  of  a  girl  framed 
in  an  old-fashioned  doorway  and  'the  sapphire 
radiance  of  the  Blue  Grotto !  The  sympathy 
and  understanding  that  had  filled  the  silence  as 
the  boat  rocked  in  the  wonder-cave  had  been  re- 
vealed again  in  the  reverential  little  pilgrim  im- 
pulsively confessing  her  visit  to  the  shrine  of 
the  poets.  Each  picture  flashed  before  the 
American  with  overpowering  vividness  and  he 
rose  unsteadily. 

"  It  would  make  more  difference,"  he  owned 
slowly,  "  than  I  had  ever  dreamed !  " 


CHAPTER  XV, 

AUNT  EMILIA 

'  <  A  ND  this  morning,  my  dear  boy,"  smiled 
•**•  the  Signorina  Emilia,  "  do  we  study 
Italian  or  English?  Or  are  we  going  to  look 
over  that  memory  chest  of  mine?" 

The  old  lady  daintily  tucked  a  rose  into  her 
snowy  hair  with  a  laugh  of  deprecation  at  her 
own  vanity,  smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  black 
silk  gown,  and  carefully  adjusted  her  lace-ker- 
chief with  a  questioning  look  at  Phil. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  I  don't  feel  like  Italian,"  he 
assured  her,  "  and  your  English  is  improving  so 
rapidly  that  I'm  frankly  jealous,  so  we'll  omit 
that  too  until  I  catch  up." 

"  You  were  to  call  me  Aunt  Emilia  this  morn- 
ing ! "  she  reminded  him  reproachfully. 

"  Looking  back  over  the  morning,"  he  retorted 
gravely,  "  I  fail  to  remember  any  opportunity 
I've  had  to  say  that  or  anything  else ! " 

The  old  Signorina  laughed  outright. 

"  You  mean  that  I've  been  talking  a  great 
deal,  don't  you?"  she  questioned.  "Well,  per- 
haps I  have.  Dioneo  and  Beatrice  both  know  all 
my  little  stories  of  the  past  and  so  until  you 
came  this  summer,  I  had  locked  up  my  memory 

192 


AUNT    EMILIA  193 

chest  and  kept  it  to  myself.  Each  day,  though, 
I  come  out  here  in  this  dear  old  rose-garden  and 
dream  of  the  bygone  days.  \  I  love  the  roses  and 
the  fluttering  petals,'^  she  said  wistfully,  "  and 
I'm  always  a  little  sad  and  lonesome  for  them 
when  they're  gone.  I  sprinkle  the  fresh  petals 
all  about  my  room  and  through  my  bureau  and 
in  the  winter  I  have  a  pillow  full  of  rose-leaves, 
dry  and  sweet." 

There  was  always  the  faint  scent  of  roses 
about  her,  Phil  remembered,  and  the  beautiful 
old  face  often  brought  back  to  him  his  first 
thought  of  its  delicate  loveliness — "a  faded 
rose-leaf  tipped  with  frost !  " 

"  Do  you  pack  away  those  treasures  of  your 
memory  chest  in  rose-leaves?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  Yes ! "  she  nodded  in  quick  response  to  his 
fancy,  "  a  rose-leaf  for  each  day.  When  I  tell 
you  of  those  dear  old  times,"  she  added  dream- 
ily, "  I  seem  to  live  them  over  again." 

Phil  glanced  at  the  dark  eyes  that  were  al- 
ways looking  down  the  dim  perspective  of  the 
distant  years  and  recalled  Michelangelo's  beau- 
tiful words,  "  That  which  is  round  about  me  I 
see  as  from  afar,  while  that  which  is  past  and 
gone  becomes  present  reality."  It  was  true  of 
this  dear  old  dreamer  who  so  loved  to  wander 
in  the  shadowy  aisles  of  long  ago.  The  present 
to  her  was  but  a  pale  wraith  of  the  glowing  past. 

"  I'm  afraid  we'll  break  the  hinges  of  that 


194  TKAUMEREI 

memory  chest  of  yours,  Aunt  Emilia,"  Phil  ven- 
tured presently.  "We  open  it  nearly  every 
morning." 

"  You  can't  break  the  hinges  of  my  memory 
chest,"  she  told  him  dreamily,  "  for  they're  made 
of  Love  and  the  padlock  is  made  of  Dreams. 
There's  a  mischievous  little  imp  called  Forget- 
fulness  who  would  like  to  steal  away  the  price- 
less treasures  of  my  chest,  but  I  always  keep  a 
soldier  on  guard,  a  soldier  I  call  —  Remem- 
brance ! " 

"  Suppose,"  suggested  Phil,  smiling  at  her 
quaint  fancy,  "suppose  you  tell  me  this  morn- 
ing about  your  brother's  Stradivarius.  He  him- 
self has  told  Kirke  about  it ! "  he  added  quickly 
in  response  to  her  look  of  surprise. 

She  repeated  the  tragic  story  of  the  two  broth- 
ers in  her  soft  and  pretty  voice  with  such  an  air 
of  pride  in  their  genius  that  the  pathetic  little 
story  had  an  added  charm. 

"Aunt  Emilia,"  suggested  Phil  as  she  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap  at  the  end,  "  this  curious 
superstition  which  is  woven  about  the  violin  - 
do  you  believe  in  it?" 

"  We  Lambertis  are  not  superstitious,"  she 
owned  thoughtfully,  "  but  the  past  history  of  the 
instrument  and  —  and  our  own  experience  had 
made  us  wonder  a  little.  I  have  often  heard  my 
brother  say  that  the  ten  years  he  has  had  the 
violin  have  been  among  the  most  tranquil  of  his 


AUNT    EMILIA  195 

life.  Before  that,  well  —  there  was  some  very 
bitter  trouble  and  since  the  loss  he  has  had 
nothing  but  misfortune.  There  is,  of  course,  a 
more  material  reason  — " 

"  Tell  me  about  it !  "  urged  Phil. 

"You  mustn't  ever  let  Dioneo  know  that  I 
told  you !  "  she  exclaimed  impressively.  "  He  is 
so  very  proud !  We  Lambertis  are  a  proud  race, 
Signore  Philip,  and  we  ask  no  one's  pity  in  our 
misfortunes ! "  There  was  a  sudden  flash  of 
spirit  in  her  dark  eyes  and  she  sat  very  straight 
and  quiet  for  a  second.  "  You  knew  the  violin 
was  stolen  eight  months  ago,  didn't  you, 
Philip?" 

"  Yes.     Kirke  told  me." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  didn't  know  that  the 
theft  meant  more  than  the  loss  of  a  valued  heir- 
loom. It  completely  upset  a  certain  plan  of 
Dioneo's."  The  old  lady  paused  and  brushed 
back  the  silver  mist  of  hair  irreverently  blown 
about  her  face  by  the  morning  wind.  "  You've 
heard,  of  course,"  she  went  on,  colouring,  "  that 
we  Italians  are  taxed  very,  very  heavily.  The 
taxes  on  the  villa  and  grounds  have  grown  and 
grown  until  some  time  ago  they  reached  a  sum 
that  seemed  to  us  colossal.  You  see,  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Lambertis  have  been  seriously  im- 
paired for  years  and  the  taxes  had  gone  on  ac- 
cumulating until  Dioneo  was  at  his  wits'  ends, 
realising  that  they  must  be  paid  very  soon  in- 


196  TRAUMEREI 

deed  or  there  would  be  serious  consequences." 
"  He  could  have  sold  the  Stradivarius,"  sug- 
gested Phil  thoughtlessly.     "  It  in  itself  is  worth 
a  small  fortune." 

"  Sell  Camillo's  violin ! "  exclaimed  the  old 
Signorina  in  grave  displeasure,  "  Dioneo  would 
sooner  starve !  "  She  checked  the  swift  apology 
that  rose  to  the  American's  lips  with  a  little  ges- 
ture. "  At  length,"  she  went  on,  "  when  he  had 
grown  desperate,  worrying  over  that  terrible, 
terrible  tax,  he  heard  of  a  prize  offered  by  a 
Milanese  publisher  for  an  original  opera,  and 
the  prize  money  was  just  sufficient  to  clear  the 
debt  of  our  little  estate.  My  brother  deter- 
mined to  compete  for  it  —  he  is  a  wonderful 
composer,  Philip  —  and  both  Beatrice  and  my- 
self had  the  utmost  confidence  in  his  ability. 
We  knew  that  he  must  win ! 

"  In  composing,  Dioneo  first  improvised  his 
melodies  upon  his  violin,  and  then  with  the  aid  of 
his  marvellous  memory  put  them  down  upon 
paper.  Oddly  enough  he  could  improvise  only 
upon  his  Stradivarius  —  without  it  there  seemed 
to  be  no  inspiration  whatever  —  and  he  used  to 
tell  us  that  the  soul  of  Camillo  Lamberti  in- 
spired his  bow  and  was  trying  to  speak  to  the 
world  again  through  the  medium  of  his  de- 
scendant. He  worked  day  and  night  and  the 
score  grew.  My  brother  was  more  light-hearted 
and  happy  than  we  had  seen  him  in  years.  He 


AUNT     EMILIA  197 

would  sit  by  the  hour  improvising  exquisite  mel- 
odies, and  Beatrice  and  I,  catching  his  spirit 
and  the  fire  of  his  enthusiasm,  grew  light- 
hearted  and  happy,  too,  for  we  knew  in  our 
hearts  that  if  he  finished  the  work  in  time  for 
the  contest,  he  would  certainly  win  the  prize." 

Again  she  paused  and  gazed  dreamily  at  her 
favourite  rose-bush,  thoughtfully  tapping  a 
small,  slippered  foot  upon  the  grass. 

"  And  when  it  was  but  half  done,"  she  added 
sadly,  "the  Stradivarius  was  stolen!"  She 
leaned  forward  and  laid  a  trembling  hand  upon 
Phil's  knee.  "  Dioneo  nearly  lost  his  mind.  We 
could  find  no  trace  of  it  whatever,  and  worse, 
in  the  bitter  grief  and  disappointment  which  fol- 
lowed, inspiration  fled  from  my  brother's  soul. 
He  grew  melancholy  and  silent,  brooding  by  the 
hour  over  his  loss.  He  made  one  or  two  futile 
efforts  to  improvise  the  remainder  on  the  piano, 
and  once  he  even  tried  another  violin,  but  he 
said  his  soul  sickened  when  he  touched  it  for  it 
brought  back  thoughts  of  the  other. 

"  The  contest  drew  to  a  close  and  the  prize 
went  to  a  noted  composer.  We  have  the  score 
of  the  prize  opera  and  it  can  in  no  way  com- 
pare with  the  incomplete  work  of  my  brother. 
So,  you  see,  the  misfortune  that  has  attended 
the  loss  of  the  violin  in  this  instance  can  be  at- 
tributed to  a  very  material  cause.  The  misfor- 
tune has  gone  from  bad  to  worse.  A  letter  with 


198  TRAUMEREI 

the  governmental  stamp  upsets  us  all.  The 
taxes  are  long  overdue ;  it  is  only  through  the  in- 
fluence of  Signore  Abbato  that  they  were  al- 
lowed to  run  so  long,  and  now  Dioneo  is  in  daily 
fear  that  the  villa,  the  last  of  the  Lamberti  pos- 
sessions, will  be  confiscated  by  a  government 
with  whom  our  family  is  already  in  disfavour. 
There  has  been  no  letter  for  some  time  now,  but 
we  constantly  dread  and  expect  one." 

Phil  longed  to  ask  why  the  Lambertis  were  in 
disfavour  with  the  Italian  government.  The 
delicacy  of  the  subject,  however,  checked  him. 

"  And  so,"  he  queried  curiously,  "  you  have 
had  no  trace  of  the  violin  whatever?  " 

"  None.  It  is  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  all 
of  us.  But  few  knew  the  instrument's  remark- 
able story  or  its  value  and  we  can  find  no  reason 
for  the  theft.  Dioneo  thinks  a  stray  mendicante 
stole  in  —  you  know  in  this  safe  little  valley  we 
are  very  careless  about  the  locks  of  doors  and 
windows  —  and  carried  it  off  as  a  means  of  earn- 
ing a  few  soldi  as  a  vagrant  musician,  never 
dreaming,  perhaps,  that  he  had  stolen  a  genuine 
Stradivarius,  the  finest  product  of  a  master  hand 
and  an  heirloom  of  a  once  great  family." 

Silently  marvelling,  the  American  reviewed 
the  remarkable  chain  of  circumstances  that  had 
been  connected  with  this  old  violin.  The  Lam- 
bertis little  guessed  the  curious  links  the  sum- 
mer had  already  added.  As  great  a  mystery  lay 


AUNT    EMILIA  199 

about   the   second   disappearance   as   the   first. 

"  And  the  thief? "  Phil  queried  presently, 
watching  the  old  Signorina's  face  intently. 
"Aunt  Emilia,  do  you  suspect  any  one?  You 
have  told  me  only  your  brother's  theory." 

The  old  lady  flushed. 

"  My  boy,"  she  said  in  quick  embarrassment, 
"I  —  I  don't  like  to  tell  you  what  I  think.  I'm 
very  impulsive  and  it  is  wrong  to  cast  the 
shadow  of  a  suspicion  upon  a  person  unless  you 
are  positive."  She  hesitated.  "  Beatrice  and  I 
both  think  it  was  stolen  by  Pietro  Masetto, 
Lauretta's  sweetheart.  Dioneo,  however,  will 
not  listen  to  that  theory.  He  has  spoken  to  you 
of  Pietro's  great  musical  gift,  and  the  fellow  did 
passionately  love  my  brother  '  for  opening  the 
gate  of  the  music  flood,'  as  he  called  it.  Dioneo 
declares  that  if  ever  there  were  honesty  in  hu- 
man eyes  it  lay  in  Pietro  Masetto's.  He  has 
commanded  us  never  to  dare  breathe  that  sus- 
picion again  and,  though  Beatrice  and  I  still 
cling  to  it,  we  dare  not  mention  it  in  his  pres- 
ence, for  Dioneo  at  best  is  very  hot-tempered. 
My  brother  pointed  out  a  very  convincing  argu- 
ment against  his  guilt  in  the  fact  that  Pietro  did 
not  know  the  value  of  the  instrument  and  that 
he  would  not  steal  an  apparently  commonplace 
violin  when  he  had  one  of  his  own.  Lauretta 
knows  that  we  missed  the  violin  at  the  same  time 
that  Pietro  left  the  valley;  he  fled  in  the  night 


200  TRAUMEREI 

without  even  saying  good-bye  to  her  (odd,  in- 
deed, too,  for  he  was  passionately  fond  of  her!) 
and  Beatrice  questioned  her,  thinking  that  the 
girl  might  have  been  in  his  confidence.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  she  knew  nothing  of  it.  She's 
honest  and  truthful  and  loyal,  and  Pietro's  sud- 
den disappearance  was  as  mysterious  to  her  as 
it  was  to  all  of  us.  '  Ah,  no  —  no,  Signorina,' 
she  would  sob,  i  it  is  true  I  can  not  understand 
it  all,  but  Pietro  did  not  steal  the  padrone's  vio- 
lin ! '  For  a  time  she  was  heart-broken,  but  she 
still  believes  that  he  is  innocent." 

"And  why  does  Signore  Dioneo  believe  so 
strongly  in  Pietro's  innocence  when  everything 
points  against  it?  " 

"  He  says  that  the  lad  could  not  simulate  such 
passionate  love  and  gratitude,  and  that  if  he 
really  felt  as  he  said  he  did,  he  could  not  have 
stolen  from  the  man  who  helped  him.  Dioneo, 
you  see,  credits  the  whole  world  with  the  Lam- 
berti  code  of  honour.  I  —  I'm  afraid  I've  talked 
a  great  deal,  Philip.  I'm  getting  a  little  tired. 
We  never  speak  of  the  Stradivarius  among  our- 
selves and  by  degrees  my  brother  is  becoming  re- 
signed to  the  loss,  although  at  times  he  still 
broods.  I  often  wish  he  could  have  finished  his 
opera  and  won  the  prize,"  she  sighed  wistfully. 
"  It  would  have  —  have  helped  us  so  much !  " 

Phil  thought  suddenly  of  Mccolo's  strange 
visitor. 


AUNT    EMILIA  201 

"  Have  you  made  any  recent  search  for  the 
violin?  "  he  asked. 

"  No.  Except  for  the  original  search  imme- 
diately after  the  loss,  it  has  been  dropped  en- 
tirely. You  see,  there  is  no  clue." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  gesture  of 
weariness. 

"  Just  a  minute,  Aunt  Emilia,"  said  Phil 
gently.  "  Who  besides  your  own  immediate 
family  knew  about  the  Stradivarius  —  its  his- 
tory, its  great  value,  its  superstitious  virtues,  its 
unusual  formation,  and  the  part  it  was  playing 
in  inspiring  the  writing  of  the  opera  that  was 
to  retrieve  your  fallen  fortunes?  " 

The  old  Signorina  thoughtfully  fingered  the 
cameo  at  her  throat. 

"Why,  no  one,  Philip,"  she  said  presently. 
"  No  one  but  our  own  family  and  Count  Teo- 
doro  di  Gomito.  He  wras  very  much  interested 
in  the  writing  of  the  opera  and  a  real  friend  at 
the  time  of  the  violin's  loss.  He  undertook  the 
search  himself  and  hired  men  to  help  him,  but 
all  to  no  avail." 

"  That  was  indeed  kind  of  him ! "  exclaimed 
Phil  heartily.  "  One  doesn't  often  meet  such 
disinterested  generosity ! " 


THE  STORM 

THE  soft  sigh  of  a  guitar  floated  faintly 
around  the  northern  bend  of  the  lake. 
Kirke,  releasing  the  painter  of  his  own  canoe, 
paused  and  listened  intently.  A  canoe  presently 
appeared  at  the  north,  floating  with  the  tide, 
and  the  American  waved  his  arm  to  the  girl 
within  it  and  paddled  out  to  meet  her. 

"  The  Goblins  along  this  lake  are  always  pre- 
sumptuous !  "  he  deplored,  smiling.  "  I  know  of 
one  who  dislikes  canoeing  alone." 

"  Nereids  prefer  it !  "  mocked  the  girl. 

"  Self-sacrifice  is  a  beautiful  virtue ! "  came 
the  cryptic  assurance. 

Beatrice  laughed  and  paddled  to  shore. 

"  Your  canoe,"  she  suggested  demurely,  "  is 
almost  too  substantial  for  such  a  mystic  being  as 
Nocturnia.  However  — " 

Kirke,  secretly  exultant,  moored  her  canoe 
and  assisted  her  to  his  own,  paddling  briskly 
along  the  shore  to  the  shade  of  a  tree,  i  In  the 
shadows  around  them,  cool,  deep  pools  rippled 
incessantly  with  the  flash  and  dart  of  the  tiny 
water-folk.  Peering  into  the  lake,  one  caught 
glimmering  tones  of  sapphire  and  amethyst 

202 


THE     STORM  203 

which  Beatrice  whimsically  called  "  the  hidden 
jewels  of  the  Nereids."  / 

The  American  pointed  across  the  water. 

"What  a  picture  that  would  make,  Sig- 
norina!"  he  exclaimed,' "  those  hills  in  the  dis- 
tance backed  with  purple  mist  and  pierced  by 
an  occasional  glint  of  gold  where  the  sun  flashes 
through  —  the  chapel  —  how  vividly  gold  the 
cross  is  to-day!  and  in  the  foreground  this  rip- 
pling lake  with  blinding  contrasts  of  light  and 
shadow,  reflecting  the  emerald  of  the  trees  and 
the  sapphire  of  the  sky !  See,  where  the  water 
mirrors  the  sun-fire,  the  lake  is  patched  in  gold) 
If  one  could  only  paint  this  odd  golden  haze 
that  lies  over  the  valley  like  transparent  cloth- 
of-gold!" 

Beatrice  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Signore  Bentley,"  she  exclaimed  impulsively, 
"  you  are  an  artist !  " 

"  No  "  -  Kirke  flushed  uncomfortably,  a  lit- 
tle ashamed  of  the  idle  years  behind  him  — "  just 
a  dilettante ! " 

A  curious  fire  flashed  up  in  the  girl's 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "  it  seemed 
to  me  that  first  night  when  you  came  into 
the  chapel  that  your  temperament  was  creative. 
You  were  so  very  fanciful." 

"Your  aunt  has  told  Phil,"  suggested  Kirke, 
shrugging  away  an  odd  depression  that  had  crept 


204  TEAUMEREI 

over  him,  "  that  the  Lambertis  are  all  born  with 
creative  power.  Tell  me  more  about  those  won- 
derful old  Lambertis.  Were  there  more  like  the 
great  Camillo?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  simply,  the  reverence  in  her 
dark  eyes  attesting  a  stirring  of  the  great  an- 
cestral pride  within  her;  "among  the  ranks  of 
those  dead  Lambertis  were  sculptors,  artists, 
poets,  authors  and  musicians.  Some,  of  course, 
have  had  more  of  the  wonderful  creative  fire 
than  others,  but  padre  insists  that  wherever  you 
find  a  Lamberti,  it  is  there." 

Her  words  brought  back  to  the  listening 
American  the  memory  of  his  student  days  with 
Salvatore  when  he,  too,  had  felt  the  passionate 
surging  of  the  creative  fire.  To-day  the  recol- 
lection of  those  two  years  aroused  his  contempt 
for  the  lazy  years  that  had  followed  when  am- 
bition had  been  dulled  because  he  chose  to  fol- 
low life  along  the  lines  of  least  resistance,  float- 
ing always  with  the  tide.  He  looked  at  the  girl 
before  him  with  sudden  interest.  Intuition  had 
told  him  the  form  the  divine  fire  had  taken 
in  her !  The  memory  of  the  bit  of  poetry  which 
the  wind  had  lightly  blown  to  him  from  the 
canoe  where  Nocturnia  lay  asleep  flashed  over 
him  in  startling  revelation.  The  description  of 
the  lake  ablaze  with  light  and  patterned  in 
shadow,  the  atmosphere  of  sensuous  indolence 
and  passion,  had  they  been  created  by  this  girl 


THE      STORM  205 

before  him?  Quietly  he  put  the  question,  a  great 
wonder  in  his  heart. 

"  Yes,"  Beatrice  owned  with  sudden  colour, 
"  the  lake  was  alive  with  fire.  I  think  it  crept 
into  the  words  of  its  own  accord." 

"  Full  of  passion  and  poetry !  "  Phil  had  said. 
How  right  he  had  been!  Her  quaint  fancies, 
her  imagination,  the  mystic  fire  that  flashed  in 
her  eyes,  it  was  but  fitting  that  they  should  seek 
poetical  expression!  Her  pilgrimage  of  rever- 
ence to  the  shrine  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto  took  on 
a  deeper  meaning  in  the  light  of  to-day's  reve- 
lation. As  the  devout  Mohammedan  journeys 
to  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet  —  so  had  this  devout 
little  pilgrim  journeyed  to  Ferrara  to  kneel  in 
spirit  at  the  shrine  of  the  two  Italian  poets. 
Kirke  fancied  he  could  see  her  bending  rever- 
ently over  the  old  manuscript  of  the  Gerusal- 
lemma  in  a  silent  worship  of  the  forces  that 
controlled  her  own  spirit. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  pictures !  "  begged  Beat- 
rice suddenly.  Kirke  smiled  at  the  impetuos- 
ity of  her  tone,  it  was  so  full  of  Signore  Lam- 
berti's  fire,  but  he  flushed  as  he  met  her  eyes. 

With  a  great  shame  lashing  him  pitilessly  into 
self-contempt,  the  American  confessed  the  whole 
story;  the  talent  that  had  developed  in  early 
boyhood,  its  growing  appeal  in  college  days  — 
the  consequent  two  years  of  study  and  work  with 
the  great  Salvatore  himself,  and  his  eventual 


206  TEAUMEREI 

dismissal  with  the  master's  words,  "If  you  ful- 
fil the  promise  of  your  work  with  me,  there  is 
fame  ahead  of  you ! " 

Kirke  did  not  spare  himself.  Relentlessly  he 
described  the  lazy  years  which  followed,  his 
adoption  of  the  life  of  the  people  of  his  set  and 
his  idle  pursuit  of  pleasure  until  at  last  the  fire 
of  ambition  had  been  buried  in  an  ash  heap  of 
indolence  and  discontent. 

"  You  see,"  he  pleaded  eagerly  in  conclusion, 
"  I'm  temperamentally  lazy  and  I've  never  been 
disciplined  to  fight  it ! " 

Impetuously  Beatrice  questioned  his  attempt 
at  justification,  growing  eloquent  as  she  pointed 
out  the  error.  The  man  before  her  had  ignored 
a  talent  stamped  with  the  approval  of  the  grudg- 
ing Salvatore.  There  was  moral  culpability  in 
his  "  sin  of  omission  "  and  the  girl  bared  truths, 
one  by  one,  that  the  man  had  evaded.  Kirke 
felt  the  fire  of  her  words  creep  into  his  blood. 
The  old  ambition  awoke  and  surged  again 
through  his  body.  Beatrice  had  ruthlessly  raked 
away  the  dead  ashes  of  his  indolence  and  ex- 
posed the  fire  of  inspiration  beneath.  Thank 
God,  it  still  burned! 

J  The  grey  shadows  of  the  coming  twilight  stole 
slowly  across  the  lake  like  ghostly  fingers.  The 
sky  became  a  sea  of  marigold  oddly  streaked 
with  rose.  Gradually  the  ethereal  mosaic  of 
colour  above  the  cypress  trees  faded  away  and  a 


THE      STORM  207 

nebulous  purple  shrouded  tree  and  mountain. 
The  cross  of  the  chapel  was  no  longer  visible ;  it 
had  melted  into  the  faint  green  of  the  sky  above 
it.  i 

"  Signorina"  Kirke  said  suddenly,  "  will  you 
go  to  the  chapel  and  play  as  you  did  that  other 
night?" 

"  Si,  Signore." 

The  American  paddled  slowly  over  the  lake- 
shadows  and  left  her  at  the  chapel,  and  again, 
as  in  that  other  twilight  hour,  when  he  had 
watched  the  fading  outline  of  the  church  oppo- 
site, the  soft  tones  of  the  organ  oboe  swept 
across  the  shadows  plaintively  singing  the  Trau- 
merei.  To  the  American  in  the  gloom  of  the 
further  shore,  its  melody  to-night  marked  an 
epoch  in  his  life! 

Thunder  rumbled  presently  in  the  hills,  ful- 
filling the  warning  of  the  ominous  golden  haze 
that  had  brooded  over  the  land  all  day,  and 
Kirke  paddled  quickly  back  across  the  lake  to 
the  chapel.  '  The  darkness  had  grown  intense; 
black  storm  clouds  sailed  across  the  sky,  turn- 
ing the  twilight  into  deepest  night.  Vivid 
flashes  of  lightning  angrily  cleft  the  darkness 
like  a  sword  of  steel. '  In  the  chapel  Beatrice 
had  risen  at  the  sound  of  the  thunder  and  ap- 
proached the  door.  The  wind  violently  banged 
it  shut  and  sent  the  light  of  the  altar 
candle  flickering  oddly  on  the  walls  as  Kirke 


208  TRAUMEREI 

entered,  a  regretful  herald  of  the  coming 
storm. 

They  hurried  through  the  darkness  to  the  lake 
shore.  \  A  furious  gale  of  wind  was  blowing 
down  from  the  hills.  The  lake,  furrowed  into 
angry  waves,  flashed  strangely  in  the  brief  il- 
luminations of  the  lightning  but,  during  the  in- 
tervals of  darkness,  an  ebony  pall  lay  over  the 
land. '  A  sheet  of  light  suddenly  mantled  the 
valley  and  in  its  momentary  radiance  Kirke  saw 
the  girl  at  his  side  distinctly.  Her  eyes  were 
starry  with  excitement;  her  cheeks  lashed  into 
crimson  by  the  rough  caress  of  the  storm  wind. 
It  blew  her  dark  hair  about  her  face  and  sent  her 
skirts  flapping  backward  in  the  gale.  For  the 
instant  she  had  seemed  a  veritable  Wind  God- 
dess bathed  in  the  terrible  fire  of  the  lightning. 
There  was  no  fear  in  her  face.  The  American 
f  saw  only  a  passionate  delight  in  this  battle  of 
the  elements. 

"  Signore  Bentley,"  she  cried,  touching 
his  arm  impulsively,  "  let  us  wait  until  the 
wind  and  rain  are  over.  !  I  love  the  storms 
best.  Nature  in  her  anger  is  a  wonderful 
sight!  "\ 

The  rain  came  suddenly  in  driving  torrents, 
the  long  spires  flashing  silver  in  the  lightning. 
They  seemed  but  unbroken  rods  of  rain  from 
cloud  to  lake  where  they  broke  with  a  beating 
sound  into  hundreds  of  drops. 


THE     STORM  209 

"  See !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  They  are  silver  jave- 
lins flung  from  the  clouds,  but  they  break  against 
the  armour  of  the  lake !  " 

The  rain  drove  the  canoeists  once  again  to  the 
shelter  of  the  chapel.  This  time  Beatrice 
eagerly  opened  the  windows  facing  the  lake  and 
in  silence  they  watched  the  tumult  without  grow 
into  a  terrific  whirl  of  wind  and  wave  and  blind- 
ing lightning.  The  girl  herself  seemed  a  part 
of  the  storm  in  her  passionate  response  to  its 
beauty. 

The  storm  spent  itself  as  swiftly  as  it  had 
come.  Nature's  southern  temper  was  as  quick 
and  impulsive  as  that  of  her  children.  The  rain 
stopped,  the  thunder  died  away  and  the  scur- 
rying clouds  broke  and  parted,  revealing  a  moon 
that  knew  nothing  of  storms.  ' 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  Beatrice  said  dream, 
ily,  gazing  from  the  window,  "  that  Nature  sits 
up  yonder  in  those  moonlit  hills  playing  the 
Great  Organ  of  the  Universe.  The  sound  floats 
down  into  the  valley  from  beneath  her  fingers, 
an  ethereal  essence  which  materialises  into  tree 
and  bush  and  flower  and  fruit.  Her  moods  are 
visualised  to  us  in  the  storms  and  calm.  The 
thunder,  I  fancy,  is  her  pedal  Bourdon  and  the 
piping  notes  of  the  birds  are  the  tremulous 
reeds." 

The  fresh,  damp  air  blew  strongly  in  at  the 
chapel  window, and  with  a  little  sigh  of  regret 


210  TRAUMEKEI 

Beatrice  closed  it.  So  presently  they  crossed  the 
lake  again  in  the  pathway  of  a  nioon  that  van- 
ished fitfully  from  time  to  time  in  scudding 
wind  clouds.  !  The  darkness  now  was  fragrant 
with  the  smell  of  earth  and  mountain  pine. 
Fireflies  revelled  incontinently  in  the  warm 
dampness  that  had  followed  the  storm,  dotting 
the  valley  and  the  hedge  of  fire  about  the  villa 
with  spots  of  phosphorescence. 

"  May  I  see  the  poems?  "  Kirke  asked  humbly, 
as  they  entered  the  house. 

For  answer  Beatrice  led  the  way  through  the 
hall  to  a  room  on  the  right  which  seemed  to 
breathe  forth  her  personality  from  the  very 
walls.  Over  her  desk  were  ranged  a  line  of 
books,  Tasso,  Guarini,  Mestastasio,  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Ariosto,  Alfieri,  Kirke  read  their 
titles  one  by  one.  The  Italian  poets  had  a 
staunch  devotee  in  this  girl  whose  fingers  had 
worn  their  bindings  to  a  fading  smoothness. 
Smiling  she  laid  a  small  volume  in  his  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  The  first  copies  came  from  Milan  to-day ! " 
she  said. 

Kirke  bent  over  the  slender  hand  and  kissed  it 
reverently.  It  seemed  but  natural  in  this  ro- 
mantic Italian  valley. 

"A  tribute,"  he  said  gravely,  "to  the  little 
lady  who  woke  a  dreamer.  He  was  idling  his 
life  away  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  never  real- 


THE      STORM  211 

ising  that  all  the  while  he  was  fleeing  from  it! 
Buona  notte,  Signorina! " 

Kirke  climbed  the  mountain  trail  to  the  Villa 
Spa  Gett  and  dined  alone.  Phil  had  disap- 
peared, leaving  word  that  he  would  not  return 
until  late.  Out  on  the  porch  in  the  coolness 
that  had  followed  the  storm,  Kirke  smoked 
thoughtfully.  Looking  back,  he  fancied  that  the 
whole  trend  of  circumstances,  from  the  purchase 
of  the  violin  to  this  memorable  afternoon,  had 
been  moving  toward  one  end  —  his  own  awak- 
ening! His  romantic  quest  in  Beritola  had 
stilled  the  old  restless  discontent;  to-day  Be- 
atrice Lamberti  had  sown  the  new  seed.  To- 
night, indeed,  the  loss  of  the  Stradivarius  seemed 
unreal;  the  effect  of  its  purchase  upon  his  life, 
however,  would  be  never-ending. 
!  The  mountain  about  him  was  murmurous  with 
the  sounds  of  the  night  —  the  dripping  of  rain 
from  the  pine-branches  and  the  sleepy  plaint  of 
the  drenched  birds.  The  smell  of  orange  and 
pine  crept  through  the  wet  leaves  of  the  rose- 
vine  over  the  porch  and  lulled  the  American  into 
quietude.  The  valley  lay  stretched  at  his  feet, 
a  moonlit  mirage  dappled  in  shadow.  It  van- 
ished fitfully  as  the  moon  sailed  behind  the 
clouds.  In  the  intervals  of  gloom  the  shaft  of 
fire  above  Vesuvius  flamed  brilliantly.  ' 

Kirke  rose  and  looked  up  at  the  twinkling 
stars.     Yes,  the  morning  star  of  a  glorious  fu- 


212  TRAUMEREI 

ture  of  work  hung  in  radiance  upon  the  horizon 
of  his  own  life,  beckoning  him  onward,  lighting 
the  true  path  to  happiness!  Happiness?  Ah! 
how  religiously  he  had  sought  it!  ]Now  he  knew 
that  to  the  idler  it  is  but  an  ever-distant  glim- 
mer, mocking  and  beckoning  but  ever  receding. 
.  .  .  Yes!  he  would  paint  a  picture  here  in 
this  rose-vale  of  Beritola,  infusing  into  it  the  fire 
that  burned  afresh  in  his  veins;  a  picture  that 
would  prove  to  these  Lambertis  that  he,  too,  pos- 
sessed that  creative  power  upon  which  they  so 
justly  prided  themselves. 

Strangely  excited,  he  hurried  up  to  his  room. 
The  book  of  poems  which  Beatrice  had  given 
him  lay  upon  the  table.  Reverently  he  turned 
the  pages  and  read  them  one  by  one.  They  were 
beautiful  little  classics,  revealing  a  powerful  in- 
sight. Passion  and  fire,  tenderness  and  pathos, 
Nature  Worship  and  the  Joy  of  Living  —  they 
had  all  been  woven  into  lyric  form  with  fault- 
less fingers.  Over  the  silver  structure  of 
thought,  the  poet  had  draped  an  exquisite  em- 
broidering of  words  in  which  gleamed  the  iri- 
descent threads  of  a  sweet  and  holy  optimism. 
As  he  read,  on,  Kirke  was  conscious  of  a  pro- 
found veneration  in  his  heart  for  the  genius  of 
the  girl  who  had  unveiled  the  morning  star  of 
his  own  renaissance.  The  lake  poem  was  among 
the  number,  and  one  called  "  The  Storm " 
brought  back  to  the  American  the  picture  of  Noc- 


THE      S  T  O  E  M  213 

turnia  as  she  had  stood  on  the  lake  shore  in  the 
glare  of  the  lightning.  Suddenly  the  book 
slipped  from  his  fingers  to  the  floor  and  Kirke 
Bentley  faced  the  revelation  of  his  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MB.   AINSWORTH   ENTERTAINS 

KIEKE,  briskly  climbing  the  trail  at  sunset, 
was  conscious  of  an  unwonted  commotion 
in  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  Riley  appeared  to  be 
engaged  in  a  whirlwind  progress  about  the 
kitchen;  doors  were  banging  throughout  the 
house;  and  Phil  himself  stood  upon  the  porch 
watching  down  the  trail  for  his  chum. 

"  Ah !  here  you  are ! "  he  exclaimed  in  satis- 
faction as  Kirke  ascended  the  steps.  "  I  was  be- 
ginning to  fear  you'd  not  get  back  in  time." 

"What's  up?" 

"  I'm  entertaining  at  dinner,"  announced  Mr. 
Ainsworth  easily. 

Kirke  stopped  short  in  astonishment. 

"  Entertaining !  "  he  gasped. 

"  Assuredly.  Hurry  up  to  your  room  and 
dress,  or  you  won't  be  ready  when  my  guests  ar- 
rive." Phil  vanished  into  the  house  without 
further  explanation. 

Thoroughly  mystified,  Kirke  obeyed.  Long 
before  he  had  arrived  at  a  lucid  explanation  of 
his  chum's  sudden  desire  to  entertain,  however, 
there  were  footsteps  on  the  villa  porch  and 
Kirke  descended  the  stairs  in  time  to  see  Phil 

214 


AINSWORTH     ENTERTAINS      215 

greet  the  Lambertis  and  Count  Teodoro  di 
Gomito. 

Kirke,  annoyed  and  astonished  by  the  Count's 
presence,  greeted  him  with  cold  courtesy.  Fre- 
quent contact  at  the  villa  with  the  Italian  had 
not  mitigated  his  antagonism.  Indeed  the  two 
men  greeted  each  other  invariably  with  a  punc- 
tilious courtesy  that  was  much  too  politely  per- 
fect to  be  sincere.  Kirke  had  found  in  Count 
Teodoro's  occasional  air  of  smiling  condescension 
toward  Signore  Lamberti  an  added  impetus  to 
his  growing  dislike. 

The  old  Signorina  was  leaning  grandly  upon 
her  brother's  arm.  Her  snowy  hair,  to-night 
heaped  high  with  exquisite  care  and  held  in  place 
by  an  old-fashioned  comb  banded  in  dull  silver, 
crowned  a  face  flushed  with  excitement  at  this 
delightful  prospect  of  viewing  the  Americans' 
bachelor  quarters. 

From  the  exposition  of  Riley's  unique  kitchen 
with  its  giant  dinner  bell  ( it  had  been  strung  up 
over  the  rafters  in  a  moment  of  deviltry  by  the 
hare-brained  Irishman  and  was  quite  large 
enough  to  summon  the  church-goers  of  a  fair- 
sized  town),  and  a  string  of  superfluous  kitchen 
utensils  depending  from  the  ceiling,  to  the  bed- 
rooms with  their  grotesque  frescoes  and  Kirke's 
new  studio,  luxuriously  accoutred,  she  was 
genuinely  delighted.  Phil,  watching  her  later 
as  they  seated  themselves  at  dinner,  saw  that  the 


216  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

kerchief  at  her  throat  to-night  was  of  priceless 
lace,  as  filmy  as  a  cobweb  and  a  century  old,  and 
the  gold-rimmed  cameo  was  one  of  exquisite 
workmanship  which  she  had  proudly  exhibited 
to  him  once  before  as  an  heirloom. 

To-night,  in  his  enjoyment  of  the  Americans' 
hospitality,  Signore  Lamberti's  face  gradually 
lost  much  of  the  weariness  and  sadness  which 
had  of  late  overshadowed  it,  and  soon  his  grow- 
ing animation  rendered  the  remarkable  resem- 
blance between  himself  and  his  old  sister  even 
more  apparent.  It  was  much  less  evident  when 
the  brother's  countenance  bore  the  melancholy 
imprint  of  his  troubled  life.  Kirke,  glancing 
across  at  the  old  Signorina,  whose  tranquil  face 
revealed  nothing  of  the  storms  of  life  she  too 
had  weathered,  felt  an  increased  respect  for  her 
unfailing  optimism  and  good-humour.  What  a 
remarkable  resemblance  there  was,  indeed,  in  all 
three  of  these  Lamberti  faces ! 

The  hum  of  conversation  about  the  dinner 
table  presently  became  general.  It  turned,  in 
lighter  vein,  to  a  discussion  of  ghosts  and  their 
alleged  manifestations.  Kirke,  in  the  light  of 
future  events,  recalled  that  Phil  had  tactfully 
led  the  old  Signorina  to  introduce  the  subject; 
although  at  the  time  it  had  seemed  but  the  nat- 
ural channel  of  their  rambling  discourse. 

"  I  am  surprised  to  hear  that  there  are  no  in- 
dications of  ghosts  at  the  castle,"  observed  Kirke, 


AINSWORTH     ENTERTAINS      217 

turning  to  Signore  Lamberti.  "A  castle  with- 
out a  ghost  is  unique." 

"  But  there  have  been  a  great  many  stories  of 
ghosts  in  the  castle ! "  exclaimed  Beatrice. 
"  You,  padre,  have  told  me." 

"  Yes,  there  have  been  a  great  many  stories," 
agreed  Dioneo  Lamberti  thoughtfully.  "  One,  I 
believe,  as  recent  as  1860.  The  last  one  con- 
cerned a  Lamberti  who  was  shot  in  the  library 
of  the  castle  by  an  enemy." 

Count  Teodoro  remained  silent.  Kirke  fan- 
cied, however,  that  he  seemed  a  little  annoyed. 

"  His  name,"  went  on  S ignore  Lamberti,  "  was 
Filistrato  Lamberti.  As  I  remember  the  story 
he  was  a  wonderful  performer  upon  the  flute. 
Tradition  has  it  that  he  was  shot  down  in  the 
castle  library  while  playing  upon  the  instrument 
he  so  loved  and  that  one  can  often  hear  him  at- 
tempting to  finish  the  strains  his  death  inter- 
rupted. Of  course  it's  merely  a  story.  But  my 
father,  who  inherited  the  castle  at  his  death,  be- 
lieved it  and  often  declared  that  if  any  disaster 
were  about  to  occur,  you  could  invariably  hear 
the  wild,  sweet  tones  of  Filistrato  Lamberti's 
flute  as  he  played  over  and  over  the  interrupted 
melody." 

Was  it  fancy,  or  had  Count  Teodoro's  hand- 
some face  gone  white? 

"  What  was  the  thing  this  mythical  ghost 
played,  Dioneo?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 


218  TKAUMEEEI 

"  The  Miserere  from  11  Trovatore,  I  believe. 
Tradition  has  it  that  it  was  his  favourite  mel- 
ody." 

The  hand  that  carelessly  stroked  Count  Teo- 
doro's  moustache  was  shaking  violently.  Kirke 
saw  it  distinctly.  His  voice,  however,  was  well 
controlled  and  airily  indifferent  to  the  castle- 
ghosts. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  commented  drily,  "  ghosts 
are  not  for  men  of  science  such  as  myself !  " 

And  with  his  protest  of  immunity  the  subject 
was  dropped.  Kirke  wondered  if  Count  Teo- 
doro  were  secretly  so  superstitious  that  the 
mere  suggestion  of  a  castle-ghost  had  unnerved 
him.  He  looked  over  at  Phil  and  caught  a  fleet- 
ing look  of  satisfaction  upon  his  chum's  face.  A 
little  mystified  by  the  curious  undercurrent  of 
events,  he  returned  to  his  coffee. 

The  dinner  was  eminently  successful.  Both 
Count  Teodoro  and  the  Lambertis  were  genuinely 
delighted.  And  best  of  all  it  fulfilled  its  mission 
—  a  secret  known  only  to  Philip  Ainsworth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  INSPIRATION 

KIRKE  had  found  the  long,  warm,  drowsy 
afternoons  on  the  lake  a  fascination  pal- 
liative for  the  depression  that  still  settled  over 
him  at  times  when  he  thought  of  the  lost  Strad- 
ivarius.  The  theft  of  Camillo  Lamberti's  violin 
had  troubled  him  more  than  he  owned.  Phil's 
growing  air  of  confidence,  however,  he  had  in  the 
end  found  contagious,  and  although  his  friend 
was  oddly  reticent,  religiously  keeping  to  himself 
whatever  suspicions  he  had,  Kirke,  with  a  lighter 
heart,  had  surrendered  himself  once  more  to  the 
charm  of  his  Southern  life  with  an  odd  irre- 
sponsibility that  he  himself  found  inexplicable. 
Each  night  now  at  twilight  the  American 
moored  his  canoe  beneath  a  tree  opposite  the 
chapel.  The  summer  landscape  of  lake  and 
chapel  and  distant  hill  on  the  other  side  he  had 
grown  to  love.  Here,  too,  he  could  best  hear  the 
organ  melodies  which  Beatrice  so  often  played 
in  the  gathering  dusk.  Her  moods  crept  always 
into  her  music  and  Kirke  had  grown  to  know 
when  she  liked  best  to  be  alone  and  when  he 
might  paddle  across  the  lake  and  join  her  on  the 
homeward  walk.  It  was  a  whim  of  the  player 

£19 


220  TRAUMEREI 

that  she  loved  best  to  play  in  the  dim  grey  hours 
between  day  and  night,  skilfully  weaving  her 
fancies  into  melody  in  the  fashion  of  her  father. 

"  Signorina,"  queried  Kirke  one  afternoon,  his 
thoughts  intent  upon  the  music  enshrined  in 
Signore  Lamberti's  heart  — "  why  hasn't  your 
father  made  use  of  his  wonderful  genius  to  bene- 
fit the  world?  I've  played  over  most  of  his 
work,  as  you  know,  and  his  talent  is  indeed  un- 
usual ! " 

"  Ah,  Signore  Bentley,"  the  girl  said  sadly, 
"padre  has  had  a  stormy  life!  To  some,  per- 
haps, that  would  not  have  mattered.  To  him  it 
has." 

"  He  is  quiet  and  depressed  to-day,"  suggested 
Kirke. 

"  Si! "  Her  eyes  grew  sombre.  "  He  has  set- 
tled into  a  melancholy  of  late  from  which  it  is 
almost  impossible  at  times  to  rouse  him.  You 
would  have  to  know  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  his  life,"  she  added,  colouring,  "to  under- 
stand." 

"May  I?"  questioned  the  American  humbly. 
"  I  have  wanted  much  to  learn  the  history  of  the 
castle." 

"Ah,  you  have  heard  then  that  Count  Teo- 
doro's  castle  is  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Lam- 
bertis?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  not  a  pretty  story,  Signore  Bentley." 


THE     INSPIRATION          221 

The  girl  shrugged.  "  For  many  years  this  whole 
valley  of  Beritola  was  a  portion  of  the  Lamberti 
estate,  and  the  heir  to  the  castle,  owning  all  their 
land  and  cottages,  was  like  a  king  among  the 
peasants.  Padre  believes  strongly  in  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  peasant.  When  he  came  into 
possession  of  the  estate  —  he  is,  as  you  doubtless 
know,  sublimely  impractical  and  impulsive  —  he 
encouraged  the  peasants  in  the  cultivation  of 
their  land,  organised  agricultural  classes  to 
teach  them  the  most  productive  use  of  their  soil 
and,  little  by  little,  as  they  were  enabled  with 
their  new  privileges  to  save  sufficient  money, 
he  would  sell  to  each  his  farm  and  cottage, 
thereby  rendering  him  independent." 

The  girl  paused  and  shrugged  again,  an  odd 
flash  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  The  government  disapproved ! "  she  said 
abruptly.  "  My  father  was  accused  of  socialistic 
tendencies,  a  serious  charge  in  our  country,  and 
a  strong  case  was  built  up  out  of  his  attitude  to- 
ward the  peasants.  The  —  the  punishment  was 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  evidence  against  him. 
He  was  deprived  of  his  estate  and  his  title  —  he 
too  was  a  Count  —  and  a  heavy  fine  was  imposed. 
There  was  nothing  left  to  us  but  the  villa  and 
that  was  only  saved  by  the  strong  influence 
of  my  father's  cousin,  Signore  Benedetto 
Abbato." 

Kirke  recalled  how  often  he  had  sought  to  dis- 


222  TKAUMEREI 

cover  Signore  Lamberti's  opinion  of  the  man 
who  dwelt  in  his  castle.  The  old  Italian's  uni- 
form courtesy  and  old-fashioned  hospitality  had 
been  impenetrable. 

"  And  Count  Teodoro?  "  he  now  suggested. 

"  The  castle  was  in  the  course  of  time  bestowed 
upon  him  for  some  service  rendered  the  govern- 
ment. He  is  buying  back  the  land  in  the  hope 
of  making  the  valley  a  principality  again  as  it 
was  in  the  days  of  the  old  Lambertis." 

"  What  an  injustice ! "  exclaimed  Kirke 
hotly,  intent  upon  Signore  Lamberti's  depriva- 
tion. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  the  girl  quietly,  "  it  was,  indeed. 
Padre  rebels  in  his  heart,  I  think,  though  he  says 
but  little.  Even  now  at  times  the  sight  of  the 
castle  agitates  him.  The  Lambertis  are  still  in 
disfavour  with  the  government  and  the  villa  is 
heavily  taxed.  Then  he  has  told  you  of  the  theft 
of  his  violin.  That  seemed,  indeed,  the  climax 
of  a  host  of  misfortunes." 

She  turned  away,  a  little  shaken  by  the  mem- 
ory of  the  troubled  years  behind  her,  and  the 
American,  tracing  the  outline  of  her  profile,  the 
soft  sable  of  eyes  and  hair  whose  shadows  he  al- 
ways fancied  were  deeply  purple,  recalled  again 
a  girl  mocking  him  in  the  moonlight  from  her 
canoe. 

"  Nocturnia,  the  Goddess  of  the  Southern 
Night,"  he  thought,  and  out  of  the  words  was 


THE    INSPIRATION          223 

born  the  inspiration  for  his  picture,  the  picture 
that  was  to  prove  to  the  Lambertis  that  he,  too, 
knew  the  surge  of  the  creative  fire  and  that 
eventually  made  him  famous. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  ARTIST 

TN  the  downstairs  hall  of  the  Villa  Spa  Gett, 
-*•  Phil's  voice  had  begun  a  monotonous  chant 
as  he  lectured  to  an  imaginary  crowd  of  tourists 
on  his  way  up  stairs.  Kirke,  reading  a  letter 
from  Miirren,  grinned  as  the  words  floated  up  to 
him. 

"  Upon  the  right,"  declaimed  Mr.  Ainsworth 
sonorously,  "  you  see  the  famous  Villa  Spa  Gett, 
now  called  '  The  House  of  Fame,'  where  that 
famous  artist,  Kirke  Kenwood  Bentley,  once 
spent  several  months.  In  this  beautiful  valley 
of  Beritola  he  rediscovered  the  genius,  buried  in 
the  gross,  vulgar  depths  of  his  laziness,  which  has 
since  made  him  famous.  The  gallows  still  itches 
for  the  neck  of  the  Devil  who  told  him  he  could 
paint!  Yes,  madam,  that  is  his  studio  on  the 
second  floor,  yes  —  yes,  indeed!  the  very  place 
where  he  conceived  and  executed  his  wonderful 
picture  — *  The  Grasshopper's  Trance.'  The 
title  is  a  fair  sample  of  his  remarkable  imagi- 
nation and  the  highly  artistic  form  it  often 
took. 

"Yes  .  .  .  Oh  —  yes!  ....  yes, 
madam.  This  is  the  room  for  which  you  in- 

224 


THE     ARTIST  225 

quired.  Yes,  you  are  quite  right.  A  wonderful 
man,  indeed.  This  is  the  room  of  that  Prince 
of  Beauty  and  Grace,  that  masculine  Venus, 
Philip  Grenley  Ainsworth.  Critics  say  that 
never  since  the  time  of  Helen  of  Troy  and  Cleo- 
patra —  never,  I  say,  has  such  wonderful,  ravish- 
ing beauty  been  seen  in  mortal.  Add  to  this  the 
remarkable  sweetness  of  his  disposition  and  you 
will  not  wonder  that  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  takes 
its  name,  not  from  the  artist  Bentley,  but  from 
that  handsome,  equable  Adonis,  Mr.  Ainsworth! 
Yes,  ladies,  that  glass  case  encloses  his  foot- 
print. It  is  supposed  to  be  an  example  of  the 
perfect  foot  fashioned  with  exquisite  grace. 
There  is  no  perceptible  defect  anywhere  in  its 
formation.  Was  the  artist  Bentley  handsome? 
Alas,  no,  madam.  It  was  his  misfortune  to 
possess  the  most  grotesque  appearance,  some- 
what that  of  a  gargoyle,  large,  unshapely  hands 
and  feet,  disorderly  habits,  a  violent  temper  and 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  features  that  were 
positively  criminal ! " 

The  speaker's  head  appeared  around  the 
corner  of  the  studio  doorway  as  he  finished  his 
harangue. 

"Well?  Haven't  you  besmeared  any  part  of 
that  nice  clean  canvas  yet?  " 

For  answer  Kirke  held  out  with  a  smile  the 
letter  he  had  been  reading.  It  contained  one  of 
the  incessant  queries  which  usually  concluded 


226  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

the  letters  from  his  sister.  Was  Phil  well? 
Why  did  he  not  write?  Was  he  happy?  Had 
he  forgotten  them  entirely?  And  for  all  the  in- 
formation Mr.  Ainsworth  had  offered  during  the 
summer,  Kirke  was  no  wiser  than  his  sister. 
These  postscripts  were  as  a  rule  received  with 
the  face  of  a  stoic.  This  morning,  however,  Phil 
flushed  as  he  returned  the  letter,  turned  on  his 
heel  without  a  word,  and  left  the  room. 

Whistling  cheerfully,  Kirke  arranged  his 
brushes  and  tried  a  dozen  different  positions  be- 
fore the  light  was  entirely  satisfactory.  Uncon- 
sciously the  whistled  melody  became  the  Trdu- 
merei,  and  as  the  strains  emerged  from  the  idle 
improvisation  of  an  instant  before,  he  abruptly 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  out  at 
I  the  purple  of  the  distant  hills.'  Of  the  memories 
of  which  the  Trdumerei  was  the  golden  key,  one 
stood  out  more  vividly  to-day  —  the  picture  of 
Pietro  offering  the  Lamberti  violin  to  the  dis- 
gruntled idler  who  could  trace  back  to  its  pur- 
chase the  beginning  of  the  fire  of  inspiration 
which  now  burned  in  his  heart. 

At  the  turning  point  in  his  life,  the  artist  was 
pausing  for  an  instant  to  look  over  the  road  that 
lay  behind  him.  Far  back,  seeming  farther  than 
it  was,  in  the  golden  haze  of  the  early  summer, 
an  idler  had  taken  a  careless  turn  in  the  road  of 
Chance.  It  had  altered  his  whole  life  and  now 
he  reverently  breathed  a  blessing  upon  the  old 


THE     ARTIST  227 

Stradivarius  which  had  so  curiously  pointed  the 
way.  Yes,  certainly  there  must  be  magic  power 
in  the  possession  of  Camillo  Lamberti's  violin! 
It  had  brought  unparalleled  luck  to  him  —  the 
friendship  of  Dioneo  Lamberti  —  of  the  old  Sig- 
norina  —  of  Beatrice,  the  wonder-loveliness  of  a 
Southern  vale,  an  ineffable  peace  and  a  glorious 
awakening ! 

The  empty  violin  case !  It  recurred  to  him  in 
sudden  mockery.  Ah !  yes,  there  was  the  flaw  in 
the  golden  summer  —  his  inability  to  restore  the 
violin  to  Signore  Lamberti.  .  .  .  Would 
the  knots  in  the  silver  thread  that  led  to  Pietro 
across  the  sea  ever  be  untangled?  he  asked  him- 
self despairingly.  Would  Phil  find  the  rest  of 
the  guiding  line  and  recover  the  old  violin? 
.  .  .  What  was  the  meaning  of  Phil's  odd 
conduct,  anyway?  Each  night  at  dusk  now  he 
apparently  vanished  from  the  valley  along  with 
the  waning  daylight;  he  rarely  appeared  at  the 
Lamberti  villa  after  twilight  and  never  remained 
at  home.  Once  in  considerable  curiosity  Kirke 
had  questioned  the  culprit  himself,  to  be  genially 
informed,  with  an  ambiguous  wave  of  the  hand 
which  appeared  to  include  every  point  in  the 
compass,  that  his  chum  was  merely  "  wandering 
around ! "  The  wanderer's  shoes  bore  ample 
testimony  each  morning  to  the  truth  of  this  non- 
committal statement.  They  were  usually  dusty 
and  scratched  and  torn,  and  Kirke,  finding  his 


228  TRAUMEREI 

erratic  friend  unusually  reticent  upon  the  sub- 
ject, refrained  from  further  question. 

With  a  shrug  and  a  frown  to  throw  off  his 
growing  depression,  Kirke  picked  up  a  brush. 
It  brought  with  it  pictures  of  the  girl  who  had 
recalled  his  fleeting  ambition  and  later  supplied 
the  inspiration  for  its  outlet  and  alas!  pictures 
of  the  Italian  who,  not  content  with  the  posses- 
sion of  Dioneo  Lamberti's  castle,  aspired  as  well 
to  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  It  was  a  strange 
little  drama  in  process  of  enactment  in  this  rose- 
vale  of  Beritola,  a  drama  with  a  hidden  motive 
that  Kirke  little  dreamed. 

Impatiently  the  American  made  a  stroke  upon 
the  canvas  before  him.  The  thought  of  Count 
Teodoro  was  ever  depressing.  The  contact  of  the 
brush  seemed  to  open  the  flood-gates  of  his  pow- 
erful genius  and  the  pent-up  tide  of  inspiration 
flowed  forth  at  last  untrammelled.  Each  morn- 
ing after  that  he  worked  with  the  fury  of  awak- 
ened inspiration. 

At  noon  one  day  he  laid  aside  his  brush  with 
a  sigh  and  covered  the  picture.  Outside  a  great 
clattering  had  arisen  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  as  Kirke  went  out  upon  the  cottage 
porch  to  look  for  Phil,  Tony  appeared  with  the 
mail  and  papers,  rattling  madly  up  the  trail. 
For  the  fact  that  he  was  three  hours  late,  Ec- 
cellenza  might  thank  those  accursed  conspira- 
tors who  had,  it  seemed,  been  tampering  through 


THE      ARTIST  229 

the  night  with  his  cart.  Indeed,  by  the  extraor- 
dinary noise  it  made  when  he  left  Naples,  he  had 
suspected  that  something  was  amiss,  but  when 
on  the  road  out  two  excellent  bolts  of  consid- 
erable importance  in  maintaining  that  stability 
for  which  the  cart  was  famous,  had  unexpectedly 
dropped  out  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  rein- 
state them,  then,  indeed,  he  had  been  quite  sure ! 
Kirke  took  the  mail.  The  topmost  letter  bore 
his  own  name  and  a  Paris  post-mark.  What  had 
Salvatore  said  in  reply  to  the  recent  letter  of  his 
awakened  pupil?  It  lay  beneath  that  scrawling 
hand-writing  which  was  as  usual  well-nigh  illegi- 
ble. 

"  I  am  glad !  I  am  glad ! "  wrote  the  master.  "  It  is 
time,  indeed!  'Bentley?'  said  the  American  artists  when 
I  asked  for  news  of  you,  '  never  heard  of  him,'  and  then 
I  would  say  to  myself,  '  Salvatore's  most  promising  pupil 
—  gone  to  the  devil.  Either  he  is  lazy  or  he  can't  paint.' " 

Kirke  winced  at  the  great  man's  delightful  can- 
dour. 

"  And  now,"  went  on  the  letter,  "  it  is  time  for  the  Golden 
Cross  Exhibition,  an  esoteric  art  competition,  centuries  old, 
which  is  conducted  privately  in  Paris  but  once  in  every  ten 
years.  The  Golden  Cross,  painted  in  the  corner  of  the  win- 
ning picture,  is  the  highest  mark  of  approbation  an  artist 
can  receive.  You  will  paint  me  a  picture  for  this  exhibi- 
tion, figlio  mio.  It  will  reach  me  by  the  latter  part  of  next 
month.  Do  not  fail  me ! 

"ANTONIO  SALVATOBE." 

Kirke  turned  to  a  letter  from  his  sister.    As 


230  TRAUMEREI 

usual,  the  postscript  contained  a  question  about 
Phil.  Heartily  ashamed  of  his  tardy  replies, 
Kirke  seated  himself  and  wrote  to  Miirren. 

"Phil  Is  quite  well  and  happy,"  he  scribbled  carelessly 
— "  he  has  another  sweetheart  now  to  whom  he  carries  roses 
and  candy  in  approved  style.  They  are  studying  Italian 
together  and  he  spends  all  of  his  mornings  with  her.  Her 
name  is  Signorina  Emilia  Lambert!  and  she  comes  of  a 
very  remarkable  family." 

And  Kirke,  absently  listening  for  the  tardy 
footsteps  of  his  chum,  forgot  to  add  that  the  dear 
lady  had  passed  the  eighty-first  milestone  in  the 
long  lane  of  years.  Nor  did  he  notice  that,  from 
that  time  on,  Margaret  Bentley's  letters  bore  no 
mention  of  Philip  Ainsworth. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  OUTCOME  OP  A  FESTA 

*  *  jyUONA  Festa!"  shrieked  an  excited  voice 
•*-*  outside  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  and  Phil  smil- 
ingly opened  the  door.  Marietta,  resplendent 
in  festal  attire,  stood  without,  her  brown, 
wrinkled  face  alight  with  the  joy  of  living.  A 
holiday  wreath  of  artificial  flowers  and  silver 
leaves  rested  jauntily  upon  her  head. 

"Madonna  mia!"  she  exclaimed,  dancing 
about  in  great  glee,  "  'tis  the  feast  of  San  Ber- 
tolo,  the  patron  saint  of  the  valley.  I  stopped 
but  to  bid  you  the  good  of  the  day  and  bring 
you  two  candles  to  place  at  the  Saint's  feet  in  the 
chapel." 

"  Mille  grazie"  said  Phil  with  a  smile.  "  We 
shall  not  forget." 

"  Felicissima  Oiornata! "  (most  blessed  day) 
crowed  Marietta  exultingly.  "  A  procession 
and  naught  but  pleasures,  flags  and  flowers, 
candles  and  candies,  wine  and  lemonade !  Holy 
Mother !  "  she  screamed  suddenly.  "  Look !  " 

She  pointed  a  mocking  finger  at  a  gaily  dressed 
figure  that  had  just  descended  the  mountain  and 
paused  with  a  grin  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
It  was  Niccolo  with  flowers  behind  his  ears,  a 

931 


232  TKAUMEKEI 

brave  red  sash  girded  about  his  waist  and  the 
hated  bagpipe  in  his  hand.  Tauntingly  he  ad- 
justed the  instrument  and  evolved  a  shrill  tune 
from  it,  and  the  rival  twig-gatherers  descended 
the  trail  in  a  heated  exchange  of  personalities. 
Phil  returned  to  his  breakfast  and  deposited  the 
candles  upon  the  table. 

"  The  feast  of  San  Bertolo !  "  he  announced  to 
Kirke;  "  Marietta  says  it's  a  great  day." 

The  appearance  of  the  valley  bore  ample  testi- 
mony to  the  truth  of  Marietta's  assertion.  Flags 
were  flying  from  the  gabled  roofs;  donkeys  and 
carts  were  wreathed  abundantly  with  flowers 
and  garlands  of  grape-leaves;  and  the  peasants 
with  coloured  sashes  over  their  shoulders  and 
flowers  behind  their  ears  trooped  joyfully  by 
from  time  to  time  on  their  way  to  the  chapel  to 
pay  tribute  to  the  tutelary  saint  of  the  valley. 
Nature  had  donned  her  best.  A  capricious  sun- 
shower  of  the  early  morning  had  festooned  trees 
and  flowers  with  glittering  ropes  of  jewels. 

So  presently  the  Americans,  too,  joined  the 
growing  procession  of  peasants  with  Marietta's 
candles  in  readiness  to  place  at  the  feet  of  the 
saint.  Ahead  of  them  a  speck  appeared  sud- 
denly upon  the  mountain  road  and  rolled  rap- 
idly down  into  the  valley,  the  speck  resolving  it- 
self into  a  commotion  of  rattling  boards  and 
swirling  dust;  a  roar  of  laughter  and  a  hearty 
cheer  broke  out  among  the  peasants  as  they  good- 


humouredly  drew  aside  to  clear  the  road;  then 
down  through  the  welcoming  line  of  peasants 
came  the  great  Tony  himself,  standing  upright 
upon  the  rickety  seat  of  his  cart  and  bowing 
handsomely  right  and  left.  On  he  came  with  a 
festal  cataclysm  of  racket,  his  air  of  extreme  sat- 
isfaction alive  with  the  suggestion  that  this  cele- 
bration to-day  had  been  planned  entirely  in  his 
own  honour.  Victor  Emmanuel  and  Garibaldi 
were  extravagantly  adorned  with  flowers;  the 
ramshackle  cart  bore  roses  and  carnations  and 
green  boughs  tucked  in  every  available  crevice; 
and  the  spokes  of  the  wheels,  bound  fierily  in 
scarlet  bunting,  flashed  along  like  rotary  fire- 
crackers. And  Tony  himself  was  no  whit  less 
magnificent.  A  red  and  green  sash  was  draped 
over  his  shoulder  and  his  ears  had  disappeared 
entirely  beneath  mammoth  bunches  of  flowers. 
Now  as  the  cheers  and  grins  of  the  peasants  grew 
into  wild  excitement,  Tony  fell  to  responding 
with  an  enthusiastic  series  of  whoops,  all  the 
while  waving  his  dilapidated  hat  frantically 
about  in  the  air;  and  presently  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  laughing  Americans,  his  delight 
knew  no  bounds. 

"  Buona  festa,  signori! "  he  burst  forth  ec- 
statically. "  I  have  come  for  the  day  and,  by 
the  Shades  of  the  Great  Garibaldi,  I  have 
brought  the  adorable  Peronella  with  me." 

With    a   gallant    bow    he    indicated    a   gaily 


234  TEAUMEREI 

dressed  figure,  in  the  rear  of  the  cart,  with  a 
dark,  bewitching,  girlish  face  and  a  pair  of  eyes 
as  mischievously  daring  as  Tony's  own. 

"  Peronella,"  announced  Tony  with  great  sat- 
isfaction as  he  halted  his  cart  in  deference  to  the 
approach  of  the  Americans,  "  is  the  prettiest  girl 
in  Napoli  and  in  all  Italy  for  aught  I've  ever 
seen  to  the  contrary." 

He  spoke  characteristically  as  if  her  beauty 
were  a  matter  of  great  personal  credit  to  him- 
self, indicating  her  earrings,  the  crown  of  flow- 
ers with  which  he  had  gallantly  adorned  her,  the 
abundance  of  her  dark  hair  and  the  roses  in  her 
cheeks  with  unblushing  frankness.  Peronella 
received  this  enthusiastic  exposition  of  her 
charms  with  dancing  eyes  and  Phil,  watching 
her,  decided  that  Tony  had  more  than  found  his 
match.  With  a  great  clattering  of  his  cart,  the 
Italian  finally  drove  off  again  to  leave  the  morn- 
ing papers  at  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  Over  his 
shoulder  he  called  back  many  promises  that  he 
would  endeavour  to  see  the  illustrious  Americans 
as  many  times  as  the  busy  day  would  permit. 

The  main  entrance  of  the  lakeside  chapel  lay 
at  the  end  of  a  forest  aisle  down  which  presently 
the  peasants  marched,  armed  with  the  candles 
that  one  must  place  on  the  day  of  San  Bertolo 
at  the  feet  of  the  blessed  tutelary  Saint.  White- 
clad  children  strewed  the  path  with  flowers  and 
the  village  priest  headed  a  choir  of  men  and 


OUTCOME    OF    A    FESTA    235 

boys,  whose  deep-toned  chant  Kirke  found  a  me- 
lodious part  of  the  woodland  harmony.  To-day 
the  interior  of  the  church  was  hung  with  festal 
brocade.  At  the  base  of  the  Saint's  image,  the 
altar  was  a  blaze  of  light.  As  the  Americans 
deposited  their  lighted  candles  beside  the  others, 
to  the  intense  gratification  of  Marietta,  patiently 
following  them  to  assure  herself  of  their  proper 
observance  of  the  custom,  they  found  themselves 
beside  Beatrice,  her  father  and  the  old  Signorina. 
They  too  were  paying  the  time-honoured  tribute 
of  the  valley. 

"You  will  of  course  return  to  the  villa  with 
us !  "  exclaimed  Signore  Lamberti.  "  It  is  a  day 
of  celebration  for  all." 

All  day  the  valley  rang  jubilantly  with  songs 
and  laughter.  In  the  shade  of  the  groves  rude 
platforms  had  been  erected,  and  the  clattering 
sound  of  feet  dancing  to  the  tinkle  of  accordions, 
mandolins  and  guitars,  echoed  clearly  in  the  rose- 
garden  behind  the  villa. 

"  The  tarantella !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Emilia,  as 
the  familiar  strains  rang  out  from  the  nearest 
grove;  "  Dioneo,  we'll  have  it  danced  out  here  in 
the  rose-garden.  It's  just  the  setting  for  their 
holiday  dresses.  Besides,  it  will  be  a  celebration 
quite  our  own." 

All  day  the  old  Signorina  had  been  bubbling 
with  internal  excitement.  Indeed,  with  the  ex- 
ultation of  the  peasants  ringing  jubilantly  in 


236  T  R  A  U  M  E  E  E  I 

her  ears,  she  had  found  the  quiet  of  the  rose- 
garden  a  little  tantalising.  Signore  Lamberti 
smiled  at  his  sister's  impulsive  whim,  but  it  was 
evident  that  the  suggestion  had  pleased  him. 

Despatched  to  seek  the  dancers,  Phil  presently 
returned  at  the  head  of  a  radiant  band  of  whom 
Lauretta,  Manuel,  Marietta,  Niccolo,  Tony  and 
Peronella  were  the  most  conspicuous  members. 
Tony  in  particular  was  in  a  state  of  breezy  good 
humour  impossible  to  describe.  He  had  assured 
Eccellenza  Ainsworth  that  of  all  people  in  Italy 
he  and  Peronella  were  best  fitted  by  reason  of 
their  extraordinary  physical  perfections  to  per- 
form that  most  graceful  of  dances,  the  tarantella ! 
Indeed  they  had  often  thought  seriously  of  open- 
ing a  dancing  academy  but  for  that  aforemen- 
tioned conspiracy. 

Marietta  danced  wildly  about,  banging  her 
tambourine  lightly  above  her  head  and  scoffing 
riotously  as  Niccolo  laid  aside  his  precious  bag- 
pipe that  it  might  not  impede  his  movements. 
The  dancers  formed  and  in  an  instant  the  tar- 
antella had  whirled  into  being  to  the  music  of 
the  Raffredo  brothers  seated  upon  the  grass. 
Advancing,  retreating,  snapping  their  fingers 
above  their  heads,  the  dancers  swayed  back  and 
forth  to  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  music.  '  The 
colour  of  the  native  costumes,  the  unrestrained 
movement,  the  banging  of  the  tambourines,  the 
darting  feet,  bare  and  brown,  the  gay  challenge 


OUTCOME     OF    A    FESTA    237 

that  the  women  flung  back  over  their  shoulders 
at  their  male  pursuers  with  all  the  grace  of  nat- 
ural motion,  Kirke  found  irresistible.  /  The 
dance  was  punctuated  by  an  intermittent  series 
of  excited  "  Ha !  "-s  from  Tony,  who  stamped  his 
foot  vigorously  from  time  to  time  in  an  excess 
of  jubilation. 

Marietta's  antics  with  Niccolo  were  as  usual 
characteristic.  If  she  found  herself  in  unex- 
pected proximity  to  her  rival  twig-gatherer,  she 
banged  her  tambourine  scoffingly  in  his  face  and 
retreated  with  a  wry  grimace.  And  Niccolo  re- 
torted in  kind,  the  two  taking  infinite  pains  to 
annoy  each  other  throughout  the  dance.  Mari- 
etta speedily  worked  herself  up  into  such  an  in- 
credible pitch  of  excitement  that  she  seemed  a 
veritable  avatar  of  mockery  and  derision. 

Of  all  the  byplay  of  the  little  dance,  however, 
Kirke  found  Tony's  the  most  astonishing.  Mind- 
ful of  the  boastful  Italian's  assertion  that  he 
ofttimes  paraded  by  his  sweetheart's  house  with 
Maria  Sazzano  upon  his  arm  to  teach  the  watch- 
ing Peronella  that  he  was  not  to  be  "trifled 
with,"  the  American  watched  Tony  and  his  small, 
vivacious  sweetheart  intently.  He  speedily  dis- 
covered that  in  spite  of  his  boasted  bravery  and 
his  friendly  advice  concerning  the  proper  man- 
agement of  the  gentler  sex,  the  dare-devil  Nea- 
politan was  in  an  incredible  state  of  subjection! 
He  followed  the  graceful  little  lady  about  much 


238  TEAUMEBEI 

in  the  fashion  of  a  huge  mastiff  who  is  both 
humble  and  tame.  Peronella  was  indeed  pretty. 
More,  she  was  quite  as  wilful  as  she  was  pretty. 
She  had  but  to  snap  her  slim,  brown  fingers  and 
flash  a  look  at  the  bewitched  Tony  to  reduce  him 
to  a  state  of  unheard  of  humility,  and  Kirke 
wisely  concluded  that  she  had  led  the  boasting 
Italian  a  mad  race,  keeping  him  perhaps  in  a 
state  of  uncertainty  by  the  very  means  he  had 
professed  to  use  to  teach  his  own  value. 

The  dance  ended;  the  peasants,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Lauretta  who  remained  behind  to  per- 
form some  household  task,  trailed  off  headed  by 
Niccolo  triumphantly  playing  upon  his  bagpipe 
to  Marietta's  huge  disgust.  With  a  whimsical 
flash  in  her  dark  eyes,  Beatrice,  too,  disappeared 
within  the  villa.  When  at  last  she  returned, 
she  was  clad  in  a  peasant  costume,  the  relic  of  a 
schoolday  pageant.  A  red  scant  skirt  revealed 
a  tiny  pair  of  satin  slippers  and  the  crimson 
bodice  was  of  velvet  fantastically  laced  in  black. 
A  square  white  head-dress  fell  picturesquely 
about  her  shoulders. 

The  face  that  looked  forth  from  the  snowy 
mantle  was  full  to-day  of  the  exuberance  of  the 
girl's  southern  life.  In  her  hands,  she  carried 
an  accordion,  swaying  it  gracefully  above  her 
head  in  a  long  chord  of  introduction.  The  next 
instant,  with  a  burst  of  rapid  music  from  the 
accordion,  she  began  one  of  the  old  native  dances, 


OUTCOME    OF    A    FESTA    239 

deftly  manipulating  the  keys  of  the  instrument 
and  bending  easily  to  its  wild  music.  There  was 
no  shade  of  constraint  in  her  manner.  The  girl 
was  revealing  her  southern  volatility  in  a  nat- 
ural surrender  to  impulse. 

Kirke  watched  her  graceful  movements  in  fas- 
cination. From  the  swaying  accordion  came 
wild,  barbaric  bursts  of  melody  and  the  girl's 
slender  body  moved  in  curvilinear  obedience  to 
the  rhythmic  sounds.  She  was  indeed  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  sun!  The  sun  had  crept  into  her 
blood,  a  golden  fire  of  impulse,  and  she  was  as 
free  as  the  peasant,  surrendering  her  body  to  the 
spirit  of  the  dance  with  flashing  eyes  and  danc- 
ing feet.  It  was  still  another  mood  in  which  the 
girl  lived  for  an  instant  the  life  of  the  body  as 
she  so  often  lived  the  life  of  the  mind,  either 
mood  carrying  with  it  no  suggestion  of  the 
other.  The  dance  grew  wilder  and  amid  a 
storm  of  "  Bravos ! "  the  girl  flung  away  the 
white  head-dress  and  seated  herself  with  cheeks 
aflame  and  hair  ruffled  into  a  dark  aureole  about 
her  face. 

"  It  is  your  dance  that  you  love,  padre! "  she 
panted.  Signore  Lamberti  smilingly  nodded. 

"  But  few  can  dance  it  so ! "  he  said. 

And  Kirke,  who  with  the  conventionality  of 
the  northerner  had  wondered  if  the  dignified 
Italian  would  accord  the  sudden  impulse  his  ap- 
proval, saw  that  the  father  understood  the  im- 


240  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

petuosity  of  the  southern  temperament  in  all  its 
moods. 

"  These  are  indeed  days  of  great  excitement !  " 
cried  the  old  Signorina,  smiling.  "  Now,  Dioneo, 
we  shall  have  supper  in  the  rose  garden !  " 

Phil  glanced  at  her  radiant  face. 

"  She  thrives  in  Excitement,"  he  reflected  won- 
deringly,  "as  a  flower  in  sunshine!" 

The  table  was  spread  by  the  giant  rose  bush. 
Where  the  last  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  filtered 
through  the  arbour  at  the  side  —  the  cloth  and 
silver  were  flecked  with  a  myriad  polka  dots  of 
fire.  Already  the  grapes  had  begun  to  purple 
and  with  a  quick  nod  of  appreciation  —  Aunt 
Emilia  smilingly  arranged  a  bowl  of  violets  upon 
the  table  that  they  might  repeat  the  royal  tone 
of  colour  in  the  grapes.  Lauretta  served  the 
supper.  Phil,  catching  a  furtive  look  of  sad- 
ness in  her  red-brown  eyes,  fancied  her  listless 
and  tired  after  the  wild  excitement  of  the  dance. 

"Perhaps  she's  grieving  for  Pietro!"  he  de- 
cided. "  I  do  wish  I  could  get  my  hands  on  him. 
If  I'm  not  mistaken  it  would  be  to  his  advantage 
and  that  of  everyone  else." 

They  sat  out  in  the  rose-garden  until  a  crescent 
moon  gleamed  wanly  through  the  arbour. 
Seized  to-night  by  one  of  his  moods  of  en- 
thusiasm, rare  indeed  of  late !  —  Signore  Lam- 
berti  spoke  proudly  of  the  past  and  future  of  his 
beloved  "  Italia  adorata."  It  was  the  hour  he 


OUTCOME     OF    A    FESTA    241 

loved  best  to  play,  and  presently  he  slipped 
away  to  the  old  piano. 

A  drunken  peasant  lurched  heavily  by,  gur- 
gling a  vinous  chant  to  Bacchus,  and  the  im- 
passioned melody  within  the  villa  stopped 
abruptly.  Ofttimes  it  took  but  a  single  grating 
instance  to  turn  the  channel  of  Signore  Lam- 
berti's  mood,  and  the  peasant's  song  had  been  a 
jarring  dissonance  indeed  in  the  peace  and  har- 
mony of  the  rose-scented  night. 

"  Our  festa  days,"  observed  the  old  musician 
quietly  as  he  rejoined  his  guests  in  the  garden, 
"  would  be  better,  I  think,  without  the  great 
quantities  of  wine  which  the  peasants  drink.  It 
inflames  their  passions  and  alas!  ofttimes  leads 
to  trouble  at  the  end  of  the  day." 

His  remark  was  little  short  of  a  prophecy. 

Late  that  night  Kirke  sat  out  upon  the  cot- 
tage porch  smoking  when  a  chorus  of  excited 
cries  broke  out  in  the  valley  below  in  front  of  the 
Ciapelletto  cottage. 

"  Marietta,"  announced  Phil,  hurriedly  climb- 
ing the  trail,  "has  just  stabbed  Niccolo  in  the 
arm! " 

"  Great  Heavens !  "  exclaimed  Kirke,  aghast. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Phil,  "  she's  in  a  terri- 
ble state  of  remorse.  I've  just  come  from  there. 
She's  had  him  carried  up  to  the  best  bed,  al- 
though the  wound  is  a  mere  scratch,  and  is 
bandaging  his  arm  and  crooning  over  him  like  a 


242  TEAUMEKEI 

sick  kid!  Manuel  says  she's  carried  up  all  the 
edibles  in  the  house  to  his  room,  besides  beating 
her  breast,  tearing  her  hair,  and  calling  upon  all 
the  gods  to  strike  her  dead  for  stabbing  '  caris- 
simo  Niccolo'  in  the  midst  of  her  *  accursed 
temper.'  She's  a  perfect  little  savage!  They 
say  below  in  the  valley  that  this  will  end  their 
rivalry." 

"  And  the  cause  of  the  difficulty?  " 

Phil  was  silent. 

"  Niccolo,"  he  said  presently  as  Kirke  re- 
peated his  question,  "  has  been  drinking  too  much 
sour  wine  with  a  companion  shepherd  who  re- 
turned to  Beritola  for  the  feast  of  San  Bertolo 
to-day  after  an  absence  of  several  months.  The 
visitor  grew  rather  loose-tongued  and  Niccolo  dis- 
covered something  he  had  not  known  before.  He 
sought  out  Marietta  —  I  believe  — "  he  paused. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  hear  the  dispute  and  the 
taunt  that  produced  the  knife?  "  prompted  Kirke 
insistently. 

"  Yes !  "  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  Well,  what  was  it?  " 

"  Niccolo  said,"  replied  Phil  slowly,  wishing 
his  friend  had  not  been  quite  so  persistent  in  his 
interest,  "that  Pietro  had  tried  to  kill  Count 
Teodoro  di  Gomito  the  night  he  fled  from  Beri- 
tola!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  DIAMOND-MAKER 

~T)HIL  pushed  the  Neapolitan  Tribuna  across 
A  the  breakfast  table  to  his  chum  and  indi- 
cated a  prominent  item,  with  eyebrows  elevated 
in  astonishment. 

"  Read  it  aloud,"  he  suggested. 

Kirke  stared  incredulously  at  the  heading  and 
obeyed.  The  item  ran  as  follows : 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  of  Beritola  has 
just  announced  to  the  scientific  world  that  he 
has  discovered  beyond  question  the  chemical 
formula  for  making  diamonds.  The  Count  has 
been  pursuing  his  investigations  along  this  line 
for  some  time  and  is  elated  at  his  success.  It  is 
rumoured  that  the  royal  authorities,  who  have 
been  searching  for  some  time  for  suitable  crown 
jewels,  have  appointed  a  commission  to  be  ac- 
companied by  a  diamond  expert,  who  will  visit 
Count  Teodoro,  examine  the  specimens  of  his 
work  and,  if  they  are  deemed  satisfactory,  leave 
with  him  the  order  for  a  supply  of  royal  dia- 
monds to  be  accepted  of  course  only  when  they 
have  passed  the  rigid  examination  of  the  dia- 
mond expert.  It  is  said  that  the  diamonds 

943 


244  TRAUMEEEI 

made  by  the  scientist  are  unusually  pure  and 
brilliant.  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  is  to  be 
complimented  upon  the  importance  of  his  dis- 
covery." 

"Well?"  Phil  looked  across  at  his  friend. 
"  He  has  been  hinting  at  this  for  some  time,  you 
recall." 

"  Yes.  Frankly,"  admitted  Kirke,  "  I  thought 
he  was  merely  a  dilettante.  There  is  no  doubt, 
however,  that  he's  made  good.  This  article  is 
quoted  verbatim  from  a  conservative  scientific 
journal  of  high  standing." 

Phil  shrugged  oddly  and  rose  from  the  table. 

Kirke  lingered  over  his  coffee,  his  thoughts  in- 
tent upon  the  news  item  of  the  morning.  What 
would  be  the  effect  of  Count  Teodoro's  achieve- 
ment upon  the  Lambertis?  he  wondered.  The 
question  roused  a  train  of  unpleasant  thought 
and  with  a  sudden  frown  the  American  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  left  the  table.  His  sketch  book 
lay  upon  the  mantel,  and  seizing  it,  he  left  the 
villa.  In  his  present  mood  work  upon  the  picture 
in  his  studio  was  quite  impossible.  To-day  he 
would  sketch  in  the  chapel  on  the  lake  shore  with 
its  background  of  forest  and  distant  hill.  It 
would  always  hold  for  him  a  suggestion  of  the 
long  afternoons,  of  the  dreaming  Nereid,  the  dusk 
and  the  music,  of  the  storm,  and  his  own  awak- 
ening ! 


THE     DIAMOND-MAKER      245 

Yes,  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life  had  been 
spent  upon  the  lake !  With  this  reflection,  Kirke 
sought  the  cypressed  shores  in  a  softened  mood. 
Lazily  he  paddled  his  canoe  into  the  shelter  of 
the  tree  opposite  the  chapel.  The  murmur  of 
the  water,  the  rustling  of  the  trees  and  the  bird- 
calls presently  lulled  him  into  a  restless  slumber 
filled  with  dreams  of  awakening  life  in  his  pic- 
ture, of  fire  in  the  eyes  and  breath  in  the  slender 
body.  The  figure  stepped  toward  him  from  the 
canvas  and  the  artist  saw  that  he  had  fashioned 
a  living  woman  with  a  glorious  light  upon  her 
beautiful  face,'  a  light  of  sympathy  and  under- 
standing. 

The  sound  of  voices  on  the  lake  shore  behind 
the  canoe  awakened  the  dreamer  with  a  start. 
He  sat  up  staring  vaguely  about  him.  Had  the 
voices  too  been  part  of  the  dream?  No  —  they 
belonged  to  invisible  people  who  had  halted  on 
the  other  side  of  the  thick  wall  of  foliage  fring- 
ing the  lake.  More  —  they  were  unmistakable! 
Kirke  realised  this  with  a  sudden  flush.  Be- 
atrice and  Count  Teodoro !  They  were  standing 
within  a  few  feet  of  his  canoe  quite  oblivious  of 
the  idler  hidden  by  the  trees.  The  American's 
first  instinct  had  suggested  a  rapid  retreat. 
Long  before  he  had  released  the  painter  of  his 
boat,  however,  the  trend  of  the  conversation  had 
startled  him,  and  with  his  mouth  set  in  a  grim 
line,  he  deliberately  settled  back  and  listened. 


246  TKAUMEREI 

"  Your  decision,"  rumbled  Count  Teodoro, 
"  has  been  affected  by  the  presence  of  the  Ameri- 
cans in  Beritolo?  " 

"You  are  mistaken,"  Beatrice  said  quietly. 
"A  year  ago,  you  recall,  the  answer  was  the 
same." 

"  You  came  with  me  willingly  enough  this 
morning  — " 

"  Si!  You  said  you  had  news  from  court  about 
the  villa." 

"  So  I  have,  Signorina  —  far  more  important 
than  you  dream."  Count  Teodoro's  customary 
mask  of  urbanity  had  slipped  from  him  as  he 
talked.  "  I  would  prefer,  however,  to  settle  our 
personal  affairs  without  recourse  to  that.  Be- 
come la  Contessa  di  Gomito  — " 

"  Must  I  repeat  my  refusal?  " 

"  You  are  thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  private  law 
of  the  Lamberti  race !  "  suggested  Count  Teodoro 
sarcastically,  stung  by  her  indifference.  "  Ah, 
yes,  Dioneo  has  spoken  of  it.  <  A  Lamberti 
mates  only  with  his  or  her  equal  in  creative  abil- 
ity, thus  insuring  a  perpetuation  of  the  inherit- 
ance ! '  His  voice  as  he  imitated  S  ignore  Lam- 
berti's  proud  tones  grew  insolent.  "  Well,  I  am 
fully  prepared  for  that.  I  have  only  to  offer  in 
return  the  Neapolitan  Tribuna  of  this  morning. 
My  dear  Signorina,  I  create  diamonds,  some- 
thing more  tangible  than  a  song  or  a  poem  or 
even  — "  he  added  with  an  open  sneer  — "  a  pic- 


THE     DIAMOND-MAKER      247 

ture!  Have  you  no  word  of  congratulation  for 
my  scientific  discovery?  It  is  unprecedented,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Certainly.  I  congratulate  you ! "  There 
was  a  veiled  tinge  of  mockery  in  the  words  which 
Count  Teodoro  instantly  caught  and  resented. 

"  Grazte,  my  pretty  iceberg !  "  he  sneered.  "  I 
am  overwhelmed  indeed  by  the  warmth  of  your 
congratulation.  That  veneer  of  ice,  however, 
it  is  just  for  me,  is  it  not  so?  There  is  plenty 
of  fire  too  in  those  Lamberti  veins.  The  fortu- 
nate American,  perhaps  — " 

The  suggestion  in  his  words  was  unmistakable. 
It  instantly  dispelled  the  girl's  self-control  and 
Kirke  was  dumbfounded  at  her  passionate  an- 
ger. The  Lamberti  temper  had  broken  its  bounds 
at  last  and  the  American,  at  least,  thought 
none  the  worse  of  the  girl  for  her  impetuous  out- 
break. Count  Teodoro  tried  in  vain  to  voice  an 
alarmed  apology;  he  had  damaged  his  cause  and 
knew  it,  and  for  the  instant  Kirke  himself  was 
minded  to  scramble  up  the  bank  and  take  an 
active  hand  in  the  affairs  of  one  Count  Teodoro 
di  Gomito.  Still  there  were  chivalrous  consid- 
erations arising  out  of  the  nature  of  the  Italian's 
insolent  suggestion  that  made  his  interference 
quite  impossible,  and  with  an  effort  the  Ameri- 
can remained  where  he  was. 

"  Just  a  minute,  just  a  minute !  "  burst  out  the 
Italian  angrily  as  the  girl  turned  to  leave. 


248  T  R  A  TJ  M  E  R  E  I 

"  Cara  mia}"  he  added,  with  open  vulgarity,  "  you 
have  a  most  infernal  temper.  It  is  a  big  draw- 
back in  a  wife.  If  you  will  strive  to  control  it 
long  enough,  I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in  play- 
ing my  trump  card.  About  the  villa  —  you  force 
me  to  turn  our  pretty  little  conversation  into 
commercial  lines.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  from 
your  father,  Signorina — that  there  has  been  an 
accumulation  of  taxes  on  the  Lamberti  villa  for 
some  time?" 

"Purely  our  own  affair!"  shrugged  the  girl. 

"  Not  so  fast,  Signorina !  It  is  very  much  my 
affair,  too,  as  you  will  presently  discover.  Have 
the  Lambertis  noticed  that  no  official  documents 
have  been  coming  from  the  royal  authorities  of 
late  demanding  payment  of  the  tax?  You  will 
remember  they  were  unpleasantly  frequent  at 
one  time ! " 

"  Of  what  interest  is  that  to  you?  " 

"  Simply  this  — "  Count  Teodoro's  deep  voice 
boomed  triumphantly  — "  I  have  paid  the  enor- 
mous tax  on  the  Lamberti  villa  out  of  the  good- 
ness of  my  own  heart !  " 

"  You  paid  it?  You  have  taken  a  great  deal 
upon  yourself,  Count  Teodoro." 

"  And  so  the  little  lady  is  not  even  grateful?  '' 

"  No !  I  know  now  that  if  you  have  paid  the 
tax  you  had  sufficient  foresight  to  see  in  the  do- 
ing some  benefit  for  yourself !  " 

"  Exactly !  "    came   the   imperturbable    reply, 


THE     DIAMOND- MAKER     249 

"  you  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  pointing  that 
out.  You  are  very  clever,  cara  mia  —  alas !  — 
still  another  drawback  in  a  prospective  wife. 
Signorina,  the  Lambertis  are  not  popular  with 
the  royal  authorities.  A  socialistic  stain  clings 
to  your  father.  I  have  but  to  explain  the  circum- 
stances, that  I  paid  this  accumulated  tax  upon 
the  villa  out  of  my  own  pocket  (at  present  they 
think  I  acted  in  behalf  of  Dioneo),  and  by  the 
exercise  of  my  influence  at  court  —  it  is  not  in- 
considerable as  I  think  you  know!  —  the  villa 
will  be  turned  over  to  me  for  a  trifling  consid- 
eration. Nominally  —  it  is  mine  now.  Ah! 
that  makes  a  difference !  " 

"  None !  "     The  girl's  voice  was  still  defiant. 

"  None ! "  repeated  the  Italian  in  astonish- 
ment. "  You  would  then  allow  your  father  and 
the  old  Signorina  to  be  turned  out  of  doors?" 

"  You  would  do  that?  " 

"  Assuredly." 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  it.  You  fly  your  true 
colours,  I  see,  for  the  first  time  to-day.  I  shall 
write  to  the  government  myself,  Count  Teodoro. 
I  shall  explain  that  you  have  paid  the  tax  with- 
out our  knowledge  and  tell  them  why  you  did 
it!" 

"  Do  so,  Signorina.  It  would  be  both  highly 
theatrical  and  spectacular.  The  result?  Just 
what  your  father  has  feared  for  so  many  months 
past.  Granting  the  money  tax  refunded  to  me, 


250  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

the  government  will  confiscate  your  only  shelter 
for  non-payment  of  taxes  unless  you  can  in- 
stantly forward  sufficient  money  to  pay  them. 
They  have  done  precisely  that  before  with  fam- 
ilies more  in  favour,  cam  mia,  than  yours  is  at 
the  present  time.  At  court  they  have  no  sym- 
pathy for  the  socialist.  They  call  him  by  a  dif- 
ferent name,  not  quite  so  pretty,  and  he  is  re- 
garded as  a  constant  menace.  In  the  end  you 
will  fare  far  worse  than  you  would  in  my  hands. 
Without  the  villa  — " 

He  paused,  well  knowing  that  the  reference 
was  obvious.  Save  for  the  old  Signorina's  small 
income  and  the  product  of  the  villa  estate,  the 
Lambertis  were  penniless.  The  effect  of  this 
last  misfortune  upon  the  high-strung  brother  and 
his  old  sister?  Kirke  shuddered. 

"  Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  demanded  the  Ital- 
ian brutally,  "  that  this  final  blow  of  losing  the 
last  of  the  estate  will  stifle  any  belated  inspira- 
tion your  father  might  have  in  his  music?  You 
remember  he  has  experienced  such  a  setback  once 
before.  More,  it  will  kill  your  aunt.  Perhaps," 
he  suggested  insolently,  "  you  are  counting  upon 
catching  the  American  artist  and  his  gold.  Quite 
right.  If  he  dances,  make  him  play  the  piper. 
It  is  the  way  of  all  ladies  who  trade  in  beauty. 
These  accursed  Americans,  however,  are  ever 
ready  to  dance  and  let  somebody  else  pay  the 
piper!  I  quite  believe,  cara  mia,  that  you 


THE     DIAMOND-MAKER     251 

would  not  be  so  unpleasantly  independent  were 
it  not  for  the  chance  of  victory  you  see  in  the 
American  and  his  soldi.  He  has  the  creative 
ability  that  the  Lambertis  demand  in  their  al- 
liances. He  is  painting  a  picture  to  prove  it, 
he—" 

But  Beatrice  had  laughed  mockingly  and 
darted  away. 

With  a  muttered  curse,  the  Italian  followed. 

Quite  unmindful  of  the  consequences,  the 
American  scrambled  up  the  bank.  At  the  sound 
of  his  approach  Count  Teodoro  wheeled,  his 
handsome  face  livid;  then,  having  assured  him- 
self that  Beatrice  had  disappeared,  his  hand 
crept  to  his  pocket.  Kirke  faced  the  raging 
Italian  with  blazing  eyes.  There  was  a  tense  in- 
stant, the  blinding  flash  of  steel,  and  Kirke,  with 
a  sudden  bound,  struck  a  long  knife  from  Count 
Teodoro's  hand.  It  hurtled  through  the  air  and 
fell  into  the  bushes  beyond. 

"  You  don't  even  play  square  in  a  man's  game, 
do  you?"  queried  the  American  evenly.  White 
and  wrathful,  he  lunged  fiercely  toward  the  Ital- 
ian and  struck  him  squarely  upon  the  temple 
with  his  fist.  Count  Teodoro  swayed  dizzily  and 
fell  heavily  to  the  ground.  With  a  grunt  of  un- 
utterable disgust  at  the  ready  surrender  of  his 
fat  body,  Kirke  seized  the  Italian's  hat  from  the 
ground,  filled  it  with  water  and  dashed  it 
angrily  in  his  victim's  face  to  restore  him  to  con- 


252  TRAUMEREI 

sciousness.  Then  he  fiercely  beat  his  way 
through  the  bushes,  flung  the  Italian's  knife  into 
the  lake  and  sought  his  canoe. 

The  long  hours  of  the  remainder  of  the  day 
dragged  by  in  interminable  procession.  Relief 
at  Beatrice's  avowed  contempt  for  Count  Teo- 
doro,  anger  at  the  nobleman's  officious  payment 
of  the  tax,  and  dread  lest  the  girl,  confronted  by 
the  necessity  of  surrendering  the  villa,  should  in 
the  end  find  her  resistance  unequal  to  the  demand 
upon  it  —  one  by  one  the  American  ran  the 
gauntlet  of  a  dozen  moods  and  emerged  restless 
and  excited. 

For  the  present,  Kirke  reflected  resentfully,  he 
himself  was  quite  powerless.  Count  Teodoro's 
insinuations  had  been  painfully  pointed  and  the 
girl  must  not  know  of  his  morning's  eavesdrop- 
ping. As  for  the  nobleman's  silence,  Kirke  de- 
cided that  the  ignominious  ending  of  the  Italian's 
attempted  treachery  would  doubtless  seal  his 
lips.  For  a  time  at  least  Beatrice  would  be  safe 
from  his  vulgar  importunities.  There  would  al- 
ways be  the  hope  in  the  Italian's  mind  that  the 
girl,  in  her  cooler  moments  of  judgment,  would 
weigh  the  consequences  of  her  defiance  and  re- 
consider her  decision.  It  would  be  unpleasant 
to  expose  his  trump  card  to  the  rest  of  the  Lam- 
bertis  when,  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  patience, 
he  might  entertain  hopes  of  taking  the  trick 


THE    DIAMOND-MAKER     253 

without !  Kirke  faced  the  possibility  of  Count 
Teodoro's  eventual  success  with  a  groan. 

Insistently  he  conned  over  endless  plans  to 
rescue  the  Lambert!  villa  from  the  clutches  of 
its  nominal  owner.  His  optimistic  conviction  of 
their  success,  however,  was  speedily  disillusioned 
by  the  memory  of  Count  Teodoro's  rumoured  in- 
fluence at  court.  The  Italian  could  checkmate 
each  move  of  the  American  if  he  chose.  A  direct 
appeal  to  the  royal  authorities  would  but  result, 
as  Count  Teodoro  had  taken  pains  to  indicate,  in 
the  refunding  of  the  money  and  the  consequent 
confiscation  of  the  villa  by  the  government.  The 
amount  of  the  tax  was  probably  not  so  large  as 
it  had  seemed  to  a  family  whose  fortunes  had 
been  impaired  for  years.  Count  Teodoro,  how- 
ever, had  spoken  of  it  as  an  "  accumulated  tax," 
and  the  Italian  drain  upon  property  was  noto- 
rious. The  offer  of  a  loan  to  people  such  as  the 
Lambertis  was  quite  impossible. 

The  hot  afternoon  dragged  slowly  by.  It  was 
quite  the  longest  afternoon  since  his  arrival  in 
Beritola.  The  heat  was  intense;  the  persistent 
trilling  of  the  cicadas  raucous  and  loud.  Phil's 
prolonged  absence  irritated  him.  To-day  he 
craved  the  clear-headed  philosophy  of  his  chum 
and  it  was  not  forthcoming !  .  .  .  Yes,  Phil's 
odd  disappearances  were  daily  becoming  more 
inexplicable;  more,  the  culprit's  explanations 
were  growing  correspondingly  ambiguous. 


254  TBAUMEREI 

"  There's  a  great  deal  going  on  in  this  valley 
that  I  don't  pretend  to  understand,"  he  reflected 
bitterly,  "  and  Phil,  I  suspect,  is  hopelessly  en- 
tangled in  it ! " 

The  American  lashed  himself  into  intermit- 
tent fits  of  anger  by  piling  up  proofs  of  Count 
Teodoro's  degeneracy.  Even  the  peasants  hated 
him !  What  wonder  when  his  avaricious  fingers 
were  reaching  out  in  all  directions  like  a  hideous 
octopus,  to  regain  their  land  and  make  of  the 
valley  a  principality  as  it  had  been  in  the  days 
of  the  old  Lambertis.  A  fitting  appanage,  in- 
deed, for  the  illustrious  Count  Teodoro ! 

Yes,  this  last  catastrophe  would  be  the  climax, 
indeed,  in  Signore  Lamberti's  troubled  life. 
Banished  from  his  castle;  deprived  of  his  title 
by  an  unjust  accusation;  pursued  by  royal  dis- 
favour; financially  unable  to  pay  the  heavy  tax 
upon  his  only  shelter ;  robbed  of  his  Stradivarius 
by  a  cowardly  thief;  the  wonderful  old  violin 
with  whose  aid  he  had  planned  to  compete  for 
the  Milanese  prize  and  clear  away  the  tax  that 
hung,  like  a  sword  of  Damocles  on  the  frailest  of 
threads,  suspended  above  his  head!  Verily, 
Nemesis  had  persistently  hunted  him  down. 

And  quite  suddenly,  in  his  chaotic  resume  of 
the  old  musician's  misfortunes,  Kirke  fancied  he 
caught  again  the  gleam  of  the  silver  thread.  In- 
stantly his  fagged  brain  whirled  in  a  bewilder- 
ing maze  of  conjecture.  If  only  Phil  would 


THE     DIAMOND- MAKER     255 

come  and  sit  in  judgment  upon  the  startling  sus- 
picion that  had  slowly  filtered  through  the 
mental  tangle  of  the  afternoon.  But  at  ten  that 
night  Phil  had  not  yet  returned  and  Kirke  went 
up  to  his  room,  longing  to  still  the  clamour  of 
his  brain  in  sleep.  He  awoke  from  a  restless 
slumber  to  find  a  light  burning  in  his  room  and 
Phil  bending  over  him. 

"  There's  your  Stradivarius,  Kirke ! "  he  ex- 
claimed excitedly,  depositing  a  package  on  the 
bed  — "  and  a  devil  of  a  time  I've  had  getting  it." 

Kirke  leaped  out  of  bed.  With  trembling 
fingers  he  tore  away  the  protecting  newspaper 
and  as  he  caught  the  familiar  red-gold  glint  of 
the  old  violin  that  had  so  altered  his  life,  his 
face  grew  very  white. 

"  Who  had  it?  "  he  demanded  hoarsely. 

"Who  had  it?"  Phil's  mouth  settled  into  an 
unpleasant  line,  "  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito !  " 

"  I  thought  so !  "  said  Kirke. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MR.    PHILIP  AINSWORTH,   DETECTIVE 


*  *  A  ^^  now,  Dr.  Watson,"  said  Phil,  smiling, 
•**•  "  if  you'll  kindly  pass  over  those  cigar- 
ettes, I'll  enlighten  you  upon  the  subject  of  my 
first  experience  in  the  role  of  Sherlock  Holmes. 
"  Frankly,  Kirke,  this  thing  started  out  in  con- 
jecture and  wound  up  in  fact.  To  my  mind  there 
was  a  mystery  about  the  Stradivarius  from  the 
instant  of  its  purchase.  In  the  first  place,  from 
what  you  told  me  of  Pietro  Masetto  and  from 
what  Signore  Lamberti  said  of  him  later,  I 
strongly  suspected,  as  you  did  yourself,  that  he 
was  no  ordinary  thief.  You  remember  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  instrument's  peculiar  formation, 
its  history  or  its  value,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
highly  improbable  that  he  would  steal  an  appar- 
ently commonplace  violin,  when  he  had  one  of 
his  own,  from  the  man  who  had  won  his  grati- 
tude and  affection,  and  then  go  rushing  off  to 
America  in  the  dead  of  night  without  saying 
good-bye  to  anyone.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
were  Aunt  Emilia,  Beatrice  and  Niccolo  strongly 
asserting  his  guilt,  and  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  he  never  would  have  demanded  two  hun- 
dred dollars  for  it  unless  he  suspected  something 

256 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    257 

of  its  value,  I  confess  I  was  literally  on  the 
fence  of  indecision." 

"  Then,  too,"  interpolated  Kirke,  "  as  we  have 
said  before,  if  he  had  known  its  value,  he  would 
have  demanded  more  than  two  hundred  dol- 
lars!" 

"  Yes.  I  confess  the  thing  mystified  me  com- 
pletely. To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  mind  isn't 
perfectly  clear  upon  certain  parts  of  the  mys- 
tery even  yet.  However,  I  didn't  puzzle  much 
about  the  Stradivarius  until  it  disappeared  from 
your  trunk.  Then  I  became  really  inter- 
ested. Evidently  someone  in  the  valley  of  Beri- 
tola  was  interested  in  Camillo  Lambertf  s  violin 
as  well  as  ourselves  and  likewise  a  trifle  un- 
scrupulous about  his  method  of  acquiring  it. 

"  There  was,  of  course,  the  barest  chance  that 
Pietro  Masetto  had  returned  to  Italy  with  your 
two  hundred,  recognised  you  and  regained  the 
violin  by  another  theft.  I  hadn't  the  faintest 
belief  in  this  theory  myself,  but  I  determined  to 
investigate  it.  I  interviewed  Lauretta  and  won 
her  sympathy,  and  she  poured  out  her  heart  to 
me.  She  doesn't  know  a  great  deal  about  it  save 
that  the  violin  and  Pietro  simultaneously  dis- 
appeared, and  she  strongly  believes  in  his  inno- 
cence. I  discovered  that  she  had  no  idea  of  his 
present  whereabouts  and  that  she  had  heard  from 
him  but  once.  The  letter  bore  the  post-mark 
New  York,  and  was,  I  imagine,  the  same  one  she 


258  TEAUMEREI 

showed  you.  She  willingly  allowed  me  to  rea'd 
it,  and  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  for  the  boy's 
own  good,  I  justified  my  curiosity  and  availed 
myself  of  her  permission.  It  merely  said  that 
he  was  '  lonesome  and  miserable  and  sick  in  a 
far  country '  and  ended  with  a  definite  promise 
of  return  when  he  should  earn  the  money. 

"  Next  I  made  some  judicious  inquiries  among 
the  peasants  concerning  Pietro's  popularity.  To 
my  surprise,  everyone  has  a  good  word  for  him. 
All  agree  that  he  was  a  handsome,  lovable,  good- 
natured  fellow  with  a  wonderful  talent,  but 
lazy  as  the  very  devil.  The  latter  fact  naturally 
attracted  me!  Next  I  climbed  the  mountain 
and  interviewed  Niccolo.  I  was  perfectly  frank 
with  him  —  told  him  that  we'd  overheard  his 
squabbles  with  Marietta  and  had  become  inter- 
ested. He's  a  true  philosopher.  He  instantly 
accepted  my  explanation  —  the  Italian  peasant 
readily  comprehends  curiosity  —  and  told  me  as 
much  as  he  knew.  He  admitted  that  his  entire 
knowledge  of  the  subject  had  been  obtained  from 
stray  bits  of  conversation  he  had  overheard  at  the 
Lambertis  when  he  was  at  work  in  the  garden 
and  that  he  had  made  use  of  them  to  tantalise 
Marietta  who  is  as  loyal  to  Pietro  as  Lauretta 
herself.  Of  his  strange  visitor,  he  knew  no  more 
than  we  had  overheard,  and  he  corroborated  the 
general  opinion  of  Pietro. 

"  Naturally  all  this  set  me  thinking.    As  you 


AINSWORTH,     DETECTIVE     259 

can  see  for  yourself,  everything  I  discovered  was 
in  Pietro's  favour.  I  decided  that  the  poor  devil 
had  been  the  tool  for  someone  else  and  that  took 
me  back  to  my  first  suspicion. 

"  The  instant  I  realised  that  the  Stradivarius 
had  been  stolen  from  your  trunk,  my  instinct 
pointed  a  finger  at  Count  Teodoro;  not  entirely 
without  reason,  either.  There  were  a  great 
many  inexplicable  things  about  that  gentleman 
which  had  already  aroused  my  distrust.  In  the 
first  place  you  recall  the  morning  we  met  him 
driving  home  from  Naples?  I  happened  to 
catch  a  look  in  his  eyes  as  they  rested  upon  you 
that  made  my  spine  creep.  It  was  a  great  deal 
more  than  jealous  anger  at  your  acquaintance 
with  the  Lambertis,  and  it  puzzled  me.  It  put 
me  on  my  guard,  and  the  night  we  dined  at  the 
castle  I  watched  our  host  pretty  closely. 
Though  you  may  not  have  noticed  it,  Kirke,  he 
was  acting  very  peculiarly.  When  we  arrived 
and  he  turned  away  to  get  the  key  to  the  old 
wing,  he  smiled  a  queer  little  smile  of  amuse- 
ment. I  caught  it  and  kept  my  eye  upon  the 
gentleman  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  His  sud- 
den burst  of  enthusiasm  in  the  chapel  and  his 
voluble  appreciation  of  those  statues  of  the  saints 
struck  me  as  very  unnatural.  At  the  time  I  con- 
fess I  attributed  his  manner  to  the  affectation  of 
a  man  who  wishes  to  appear  more  appreciative 
than  he  is.  Since,  I  have  decided  that  it  was 


260  TRAUMEEEI 

something  far  more  serious.  Then  later,  in  his 
laboratory,  there  was  a  curious  alertness  and 
excitement  about  him,  and  he  was  as  watchful 
as  a  cat.  It  was,  too,  my  good  fortune  to  inter- 
cept a  peculiar  look  between  Giacomo  and  his 
master  when  dinner  was  announced,  which,  in 
the  light  of  recent  events,  is  somewhat  more  in- 
telligible. Naturally  his  odd  conduct  aroused 
my  interest  and  distrust,  and  so  that  Sunday 
when  we  discovered  the  theft  of  the  Stradivarius. 
the  seed  of  suspicion  fell  upon  very  fertile  ground. 
I  proceeded  to  question  Aunt  Emilia  about  the 
story  of  Camillo  Lamberti's  violin.  She  told  me 
the  quaint  old  story  about  as  Signore  Dioneo  told 
you,  adding  the  account  of  the  prize  opera  as  I 
repeated  it  to  you  some  time  ago.  When  I  told 
you,  however,  of  Signore  Lamberti's  plan  to  pay 
his  tax,  I  made  certain  reservations,  feeling  that 
the  time  was  not  quite  ripe  for  the  revelation  of 
my  astounding  suspicion.  I  omitted  to  tell  you 
that  with  the  exception  of  the  immediate  family 
of  the  Lambertis,  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  was 
the  only  person  in  Beritola  who  knew  of  the  vio- 
lin's strange  formation,  its  value,  its  history,  the 
part  it  was  playing  in  the  writing  of  the  prize 
opera,  and  the  superstitious  blessings  which  are 
supposed  to  accompany  its  possession;  that  he 
took  personal  charge  of  the  search  for  the  miss- 
ing instrument  and  was  quite  unable  to  find  it. 
The  old  Signorina's  story  made  me  feel  some- 


AINSWORTH,     DETECTIVE     261 

what  like  a  bloodhound  when  he  gets  the  first 
scent  of  his  prey.  The  next  discovery  I  made 
convinced  me  that  I  was  on  the  right  track. 

"You  remember  the  brass  button  lost  from 
Giacomo's  resplendent  butler  livery?  Riley 
found  it  on  the  porch  the  night  we  received  the 
invitation  to  dine  with  Count  Teodoro.  He 
brought  it  to  us,  you  recall,  after  Giacomo  had 
gone,  but  he  didn't  happen  to  explain  the  strange 
fact  that  he  had  discovered  the  brass  button  on 
the  porch  of  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  before  the 
Count's  butler  arrived  with  the  invitation !  You 
see,  early  in  the  evening  of  that  day  —  it  was  the 
day  we  walked  home  from  Naples  —  Riley,  who 
had  taken  great  exception  to  the  repeated  men- 
tion of  John  'Apworth,  chased  Gribbins  up  the 
mountain,  pelting  him  with  tomatoes,  and  he 
was  clever  enough  to  guess,  when  he  found  the 
button  on  the  porch  and  later  recognised  its 
counterpart  on  Giacomo's  livery,  that  the  butler 
had  been  there  once  in  their  absence  and  that, 
finding  the  villa  deserted,  he  had  been  obliged  to 
leave  and  return  later.  He  knew  the  strict  or- 
ders you  had  repeatedly  given  about  not  leaving 
the  house  alone,  and  so  both  he  and  Gribbins 
maintained  a  discreet  silence  until  one  day  I 
tripped  him  up.  I  gave  him  a  cross-questioning 
that  he'll  remember  for  a  while  and  he  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  the  villa  had  been  left 
alone,  not  only  that  night,  but  one  other  night  as 


262  TRAUMEREI 

well,  namely,  the  evening  we  dined  up  at  the 
castle  with  the  Count ;  that,  in  the  early  part  of 
that  particular  evening,  Gribbins  had  heard  a 
peculiar  bleating  noise  in  the  bushes  behind  the 
villa  and  that  both  he  and  Riley  had  tried  in 
vain  to  locate  it.  The  sound  appeared  to  recede 
as  they  advanced.  Whatever  it  was  rustled  the 
bushes  and  aroused  their  curiosity  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  led  them  all  the  way  up  the  moun- 
tain. When  they  reached  the  summit  the  noise 
suddenly  stopped  and  the  two  sped  back  to  the 
house,  considerably  alarmed  at  the  length  of  time 
they  had  left  it  alone.  Riley  threatened  Grib- 
bins with  dire  punishment  if  he  revealed  a  word 
about  the  brass  button  or  the  bleating  sound  — 
both  proofs  of  their  delinquency.  Riley  ad- 
mitted that  he  never  dreamed  of  any  serious  re- 
sults arising  out  of  their  disobedience.  It  is  my 
theory,  which  I  am  prepared  to  verify  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  that  Giacomo  was  stealing  the  Strad- 
ivarius  while  we  dined  with  his  master. 

"  I  proceeded  to  make  a  mental  patchwork 
quilt  out  of  my  suspicions  and  the  facts  in 
hand.  The  result  suggested  a  little  investi- 
gation of  the  castle  and  the  Count.  You've 
wondered  considerably  where  I've  been  spend- 
ing my  evenings.  Well,  I've  been  hanging 
around  the  castle  under  the  library  window  and 
keeping  an  eye  upon  our  aristocratic  Whale. 
Incidentally  it  is  a  deucedly  unpleasant  place, 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    263 

chiefly  rocks  and  briers  and  prickly  pears.  If 
you  remember,  that  range  of  hills,  beginning  at 
the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  extends  to  a  point  almost 
under  the  library  window.  Aunt  Emilia  had 
told  me  of  a  queer  recess  in  the  wall  of  the  li- 
brary where  precious  documents  had.  been  kept 
by  the  Lambertis  in  the  old  days.  I  promptly 
decided  that  if  Count  Teodoro  had  stolen  the 
Stradivarius,  it  would  in  all  probability  be  there. 
Night  after  night  I  hung  around  in  the  shadow 
of  the  mountain  boulders  outside  the  window, 
hoping  for  an  opportunity  to  climb  through  into 
the  room  beyond  and  examine  the  secret  hiding 
place.  Our  friend,  the  Whale,  however,  spent 
all  of  his  evenings  in  the  castle  library,  and  to 
my  great  surprise  Giacomo  slept  there!  I  had 
begun  to  despair  of  ever  getting  a  look  at  it,  for 
I  couldn't  very  well  burglarise  in  daylight,  when 
one  fine  night,  as  I  sat  perched  behind  a  huge 
rock  peering  cautiously  into  the  room,  Count 
Teodoro  suddenly  arose,  walked  over  to  the  other 
side  of  the  library  and  touched  a  spring  in  the 
wall.  He  took  your  precious  Stradivarius  out 
of  the  secret  recess,  examined  it  carefully, 
snapped  open  each  of  the  inscribed  panels  with 
a  frown,  and  replaced  it ! 

"  I  was  so  astounded  at  the  sudden  corrobora- 
tion  of  my  suspicions  that  I  nearly  lost  my  bal- 
ance. I  fled  down  the  mountain  and  home.  Out 
on  the  porch  I  arrived  at  the  following  theory  of 


264  TRAUMEREI 

the  method  of  the  violin's  disappearance  and  the 
cause. 

"  The  morning  we  met  Count  Teodoro  driving 
home,  you  remember,  he  inquired  casually  if  we 
contemplated  spending  the  day  in  Naples.  I 
think  now  that  he  had  a  definite  purpose  in  that 
question.  He  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  our 
absence  from  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  That  night  he 
sent  Giacomo  here,  ostensibly  to  deliver  the 
dinner  invitation  if  we  were  at  home,  and 
incidentally,  if  possible,  to  slip  into  the  villa  and 
look  around  if  we  were  still  absent.  He  must 
have  known  at  the  time,  Kirke,  that  you  had  the 
violin,  but  how  he  discovered  it  positively  is  still 
a  mystery.  With  us  in  Naples  and  Riley  and 
Gribbins  busy  in  the  kitchen,  it  would  have  been 
very  simple  to  enter  the  house  from  the  rear.  I 
have  often  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to  drop 
from  a  tree  right  upon  my  bedroom  window 
ledge.  The  Count  owning  the  Villa  Spa  Gett, 
Giacomo  was  probably  familiar  with  the  general 
plan. 

"  Riley  must  have  been  chasing  Gribbins  up 
the  mountain  when  Giacomo  arrived.  The  Ital- 
ian found  the  villa  deserted,  the  door  wide  open, 
and  swiftly  sped  up  the  stairs.  He  could  very 
easily  drop  from  the  window  into  the  foliage  on 
the  mountain  if  they  returned.  Of  the  avail- 
able places  for  hiding  the  Stradivarius,  there 
were  only  our  trunks.  One  of  yours  was  locked 


&INSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    265 

and  that  was  no  doubt  exactly  what  he  had  ex- 
pected and  prepared  for.  He  came,  I  think,  to 
take  an  impression  of  the  lock  and  succeeded,  ar- 
riving and  leaving  unquestioned.  When  he  ar- 
rived later  with  the  dinner  invitation,  Count 
Teodoro,  I  am  convinced,  was  already  in  posses- 
sion of  the  impression  and  had  planned  to  get 
the  violin  the  night  we  dined  with  him.  In  fact 
I  feel  sure  that  the  only  reason  we  were  invited 
to  dine  in  the  castle  was  to  get  us  away  from  the 
Villa  Spa  Gett  and  clear  the  track  for  his  thiev- 
ing deputies. 

"  In  the  intervening  days  he  had  a  key  made 
and  when  we  arrived  at  the  castle,  and  were 
safely  out  of  the  way,  Giacomo  and  his  confed- 
erates departed  to  steal  the  Stradivarius.  The 
Whale's  sense  of  humour  overcame  him  when  he 
saw  us  arrive  in  beatific  security,  swallowing  his 
bait,  and  very  unwisely  he  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  a  slight  smile.  His  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm in  the  chapel  was  to  kill  time.  He 
realised  that  he  must  keep  us  busy  until  Giacomo 
returned  to  serve  the  dinner.  Consequently  he 
showed  off  his  castle  until  I  grew  weary  of  it. 
In  the  laboratory,  however,  he  had  begun  to  grow 
nervous.  The  tour  of  the  castle  was  at  an  end ; 
there  was  no  excuse  for  prolonging  his  exhibition 
of  his  scientific  paraphernalia;  it  was  time  for 
dinner  and  still  Giacomo  had  not  returned. 
When  the  butler  finally  did  appear,  I  noticed  a 


266  TRAUMEREI 

look  of  relief  in  Count  Teodoro's  eyes.  Giacomo 
and  he  exchanged  a  peculiar  glance  and  the  but- 
ler announced  '  Dinner  is  served,  sir ! '  in  very 
distinct,  deliberate  tones.  I  suspect  it  was  a 
prearranged  signal  to  announce  his  success. 

"You  remember  Count  Teodoro's  insistent 
questions  during  the  dinner?  He  was  gratify- 
ing a  primeval  instinct  and  toying  with  us  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  enjoying,  no  doubt,  my 
elaborate  lies.  He  knew  as  well  as  we  did  the 
reason  for  your  arrival  in  the  valley.  How  is 
quite  another  matter. 

"  Kirke,  I  am  convinced  that  Count  Teodoro 
was  as  heavily  implicated  in  the  first  disappear- 
ance of  the  Stradivarius  as  he  was  in  the  second, 
and  there  are  a  great  many  reasons  for  my  be- 
lief. In  the  first  place,  we  know  that  he  loves 
Beatrice  Lamberti;  second,  I  strongly  suspect 
that  she  would  never  accept  him  as  a  suitor  un- 
less powerful  pressure  of  an  unusual  nature  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  her.  These  two  facts  to  my 
notion  supply  a  partial  motive  for  the  theft. 
Count  Teodoro  realised  that  it  would  take  some- 
thing more  than  his  personal  magnetism  to  win 
Beatrice  Lamberti ;  he  knew,  as  I  have  mentioned 
before,  of  the  prize  opera  that  was  to  free  the 
villa  from  the  heavy  burden  of  taxation ;  he  knew 
too  that  Signore  Lamberti's  chief  source  of  in- 
spiration was  the  Stradivarius.  So  one  fine  day 
the  violin  disappears  and  with  it  the  musician's 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    267 

inspiration,  his  chances  for  winning  the  prize 
and  his  only  hope  of  freedom  from  debt;  which 
was,  I  think,  just  what  this  devilish  scoundrel 
wanted.  The  lure  of  his  castle  and  his  gold 
would  be  far  more  tempting  to  Beatrice  in  pov- 
erty than  in  independence.  Indeed  in  the  latter 
state  his  chances  were  mighty  unstable.  The 
Whale  is  also,  as  you  know,  terribly  supersti- 
tious. He  probably  believed  those  yarns  about 
the  luck  that  is  supposed  to  attend  the  possession 
of  the  Stradivarius  and  the  misfortune  that  is 
reputed  to  come  with  its  loss.  By  depriving  the 
Lambertis  of  their  family  luck  (if  they  ever  had 
any,  which  I  doubt)  he  doubtless  thought  he 
could  guard  against  their  future  prosperity  and 
incidentally  partake  of  the  instrument's  good  for- 
tune himself.  Mind,  Kirke,  I  don't  offer  this  as 
fact.  It  is  my  own  explanation  of  the  original 
theft.  Just  how  he  benefited  by  these  facts  I  — 
never  mind  making  such  excited  gestures,  old 
man.  You  can  tell  me  all  you  know  about  it 
when  I  finish." 

The  events  of  the  morning  had  recurred  to 
Kirke  and  he  felt  that  he  could  supply  the  motive 
of  Count  Teodoro's  plan  to  keep  Signore  Lam- 
berti  from  paying  his  tax. 

"  His  plans  must  certainly  have  gone  astray," 
resumed  Phil  thoughtfully.  "  I  don't  pretend  to 
understand  how  or  why  the  Stradivarius  and 
Pietro  went  to  America,  but  I  firmly  believe  that 


268  TRAUMEREI 

the  inscribed  panels  on  that  violin  must  have 
given  Count  Teodoro  some  uneasy  moments. 
Your  arrival  in  Beritola,  where  a  strange  face  is 
rarely  seen,  made  him  apprehensive  and  sus- 
picious." 

Kirke  nodded.  The  nobleman's  queer  glances 
had  received  their  explanation. 

"  Niccolo's  strange  visitor  was,  I  think,  an  en- 
voy of  the  Count's  seeking  to  verify  the  peasant 
rumour  that  Pietro  Masetto  had  fled  to  the 
ynited  States.  Having  proven  that  fact,  he  be- 
came alarmed.  Pietro  was  in  America  and  you 
were  an  American.  It  might  be  coincidence  and 
it  might  not.  Lauretta's  letter  postmarked 
America,  I  suspect,  suggested  to  him  that  you 
were  one  of  those  rich  fools  quite  able  to  carry 
out  an  expensive  whim;  that  you  had  purchased 
the  violin  from  Pietro  in  America  and  discov- 
ered the  inscribed  panels ;  that  with  a  quixotic 
sense  of  honour  which  he  couldn't  possibly  un- 
derstand, you  had  determined  to  find  Beritola, 
make  inquiries  and  return  the  instrument,  which 
was  just  exactly  what  had  happened.  Once  he 
discovered  your  errand,  he  did  not  rest  content 
until  he  regained  the  Stradivarius,  partly  for 
the  sake  of  the  superstitious  attributes  of  the 
violin,  partly  because  he  had  no  desire  to  have 
you  return  it  and  win  the  gratitude  of  the  whole 
family.  His  cause  was  weak  enough  without 
having  you  elevated  by  such  a  master  stroke  as 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    269 

that!  Besides,  if,  as  he  so  superstitiously  be- 
lieved, luck  should  actually  return  to  Signore 
Lamberti  with  the  violin  and  he  were  able  to 
ward  off  poverty  and  misfortune,  his  chances  of 
winning  Beatrice  would  disappear  entirely. 

"  To  return  to  my  tactics  after  I  discovered 
the  whereabouts  of  the  Stradivarius:  I  hung 
around  the  castle  night  after  night,  and  once  I 
stayed  until  daybreak,  but  the  castle  library  was 
never  alone.  I  had  planned  to  climb  in  and  re- 
cover the  Stradivarius  in  an  unpretentious  fash- 
ion, but  the  constant  vigilance  maintained  by 
the  Count  and  Giacomo  upset  my  plans.  Each 
evening  they  sat  there,  and  after  the  Count  had 
left,  Giacomo  slept  there!  At  length,  in  sheer 
desperation,  I  settled  upon  a  plan  that  has  been 
far  more  successful  than  I  anticipated."  Phil 
laughed  outright.  "  Do  you  remember  the  story 
Signore  Lamberti  told  at  our  dinner  party  of 
Filistrato  Lamberti  who  was  shot  down  in  the 
library  of  the  castle  while  playing  his  flute  and 
that  tradition  says  he  can  often  be  heard  trying 
to  finish  the  selection  just  before  some  disaster? 
Well,  perhaps  you  didn't  notice  that  I  had  intro- 
duced the  topic  without  seeming  to.  I  wanted 
Count  Teodoro  to  hear  that  story.  I  had  heard 
it  from  Aunt  Emilia  a  week  or  so  before.  In 
fact,  Kirke,  that  was  the  sole  purpose  of  my  din- 
ner party. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  notice  the  effect  of  that 


270  T  B  A  U  M  E  K  E  I 

ghost  story  upon  the  Whale?  Well,  it  upset  him 
considerably,  as  you  know,  but  you  didn't  know 
that  the  night  before  the  dinner  just  at  midnight, 
the  soft,  mournful  strains  of  a  flute,  finishing  the 
Miserere,  had  floated  in  the  library  window  of 
the  castle  where  Count  Teodoro  sat  playing 
cards  with  his  faithful  Giacomo.  Yes,  you've 
guessed  right.  It  was  Philip  Ainsworth,  Es- 
quire, behind  a  rock,  with  prickly  pears  down  his 
collar,  piping  away  for  dear  life  upon  a  flute  pur- 
chased in  Naples,  where,  at  an  obscure  little 
hotel,  he  had  brushed  up  one  of  the  very  few  ac- 
complishments he  ever  possessed. 

"  You  see  I  had  laid  my  plans  pretty  thor- 
oughly. We  both  knew  how  superstitious  Count 
Teodoro  is,  and  I  knew  very  well  from  the  con- 
fident way  in  which  he  spoke  that  night  we  dined 
with  him  that  he  had  never  heard  any  ghost  stor- 
ies of  the  castle.  Consequently  when  the  old  Sig- 
norina  told  me  the  story  of  Filistrato  Lamberti; 
I  determined  to  use  it  to  chase  Count  Teodoro  out 
of  his  own  library.  I  decided  to  perform  the  first 
instalment  of  the  ruse  the  night  before  the  din- 
ner, and  then  to  casually  introduce  the  subject 
during  the  dinner.  In  this  way  both  myself  and 
the  Count  would  apparently  hear  the  story  at 
the  same  time  and  he  would  have  no  reason  to 
suspect  that  his  nocturnal  visitor  wasn't  a  bona- 
fide  ghost. 

"  That  the  success  of  the  experiment  might  be 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    271 

assured  without  any  suspicion  of  my  identity,  I 
pored  over  the  old  books  in  the  Lamberti  li- 
brary until  I  had  a  fair  idea  of  the  costume  of 
Filistrato  Lamberti's  time.  If  by  chance  the 
Count  or  Giacomo  should  get  a  glimpse  of  their 
ghost  he  must  be  in  full  regalia  and  offer  no  sug- 
gestion of  the  twentieth  century  American  who 
was  busying  himself  in  Count  Teodoro's  affairs. 
At  a  second-hand  store  in  Naples,  kept,  by  the 
way,  by  one  of  Tony's  innumerable  relatives,  I 
found  what  the  dealer  assured  me  was  just  what 
I  needed.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  staggered  by 
the  general  appearance  and  I  assured  him  in 
turn  that  I  aimed  to  impersonate  a  gentleman  of 
the  last  century  in  this  masquerade  to  which  I 
had  been  invited,  and  not  a  bandit!  He  had 
nothing  else,  however,  and  it  had  to  do.  The  rig 
was  certainly  melodramatic  and  antique  enough 
to  scare  the  devil.  It  consisted  of  a  flowing 
cloak  or  cape  affair  lined  with  faded  red  —  a 
black  felt  hat  of  approved  bandit  style  decked  out 
in  a  sweeping  feather  a  la  Tony,  an  eccentric 
waistcoat,  velvet  knickerbockers  and  a  pair  of 
high-heeled  grand-opera  boots.  A  black  wig  and 
pirate  moustache  completed  the  outfit.  Decked 
out  in  this  I  made  as  villainous  a  looking  bandit 
as  you  would  care  to  see." 

Kirke's  eyes  twinkled  at  the  picture. 

"Well,"  Phil  continued,  "I've  had  more  fun 
out  of  this  thing  than  you  can  imagine.  Every 


272  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

night  in  my  prickly  pear  dressing-room  behind  a 
boulder  I  donned  the  bandit  rig  and,  rolling  my 
own  clothes  into  a  bundle,  knotted  them  over  my 
shoulder  beneath  the  cloak  where  they  formed  a 
villainous  hump.  If  there  should  be  any  sud- 
den necessity  for  escape  I  had  no  intention  of 
leaving  any  traces  behind  me.  Regularly  at  mid- 
night the  ghost-flute  played  under  the  library 
window.  At  first  Count  Teodoro  and  his  man 
looked  troubled  and  nervous,  but  they  still  con- 
tinued to  spend  their  evenings  there  as  usual. 
I  resolved  to  pipe  away  until  doomsday,  but  I'd 
chase  those  two  rascals  out  of  the  room.  Once 
or  twice  there  were  pathetic  breaks  in  the  mel- 
ody for  the  simple  reason  that  the  man  behind 
the  flute  was  obliged  to  snicker  at  the  horror 
and  fear  on  their  faces. 

"  Count  Teodoro  had  told  Giacomo  the  story 
of  Filistrato  Lambert!  and  commanded  him  to 
go  out  and  thrash  around  in  the  bushes  for  the 
ghost,  but  the  man  was  quite  as  much  of  a 
coward  as  his  master.  He  refused  to  budge  from 
the  library  and  I  remained  in  undisturbed  pos- 
session of  the  rocks  and  prickly  pears.  Three 
nights  ago  they  fled  in  horror  when  the  first 
strains  of  the  Miserere  floated  through  the  win- 
dow at  midnight.  They  locked  up  very  care- 
fully, however,  a  fact  which  bothered  me  consid- 
erably. The  next  night  they  left  the  library 
around  ten.  But  to-night  Count  Teodoro  seemed 


AINSWORTH,    DETECTIVE    273 

more  nervous  and  upset  than  usual.  He  left  the 
castle  library  about  nine  with  strict  orders  to 
Giacomo  to  lock  up  thoroughly  and  join  him  in 
another  room.  Filistrato  Lamberti's  flute  had 
gotten  on  his  nerves.  I  could  see  the  man  wasn't 
relishing  his  job  of  locking  up  by  himself  and  I 
determined  upon  a  bold  stroke  calculated  to 
scare  that  dago  into  fits.  I  made  a  few  grue- 
some looking  lines  upon  my  face  and  hands  with 
a  wet  phosphorus  match,  and  when  he  came  to 
the  windows  to  lock  up,  there  I  stood  in  the 
shadows,  an  approved  bandit  of  a  century  ago, 
pale  rings  of  flame  playing  about  my  face,  just 
visible  enough  to  be  terrifying,  and  piping  Fili- 
strato's  Miserere  for  dear  life!  Well,  Kirke, 
that  fellow  let  out  a  shriek  like  a  demon  and  tore 
out  of  the  library.  I  promptly  climbed  in  and 
blew  out  the  lamp.  There  was  just  enough  pale 
moonlight  to  help  me  find  my  way  and  render 
me  the  more  ghostly  if  anyone  returned.  I  went 
to  the  secret  recess,  touched  the  spring  as  I'd 
seen  Count  Teodoro  do,  got  your  Stradivarius, 
changed  my  clothes  a  safe  distance  from  the 
castle,  and  hurried  to  the  Villa  Spa  Gett.  I  left 
everything  just  as  I  had  found  it,  and  played  a 
parting  strain  upon  the  ghost  flute.  That's 
about  all  of  my  story.  No,  don't  thank  me! 
It's  been  a  lark.  You  may  prove  your  gratitude 
by  humouring  a  little  whim  of  mine.  Don't  re- 
turn that  violin  to  Signore  Lamberti  just  yet. 


274  TBAUMEEEI 

Let  me  take  it  up  to  Naples  for  you  to-morrow 
and  put  it  in  safe  deposit." 

Kirke's  face  clouded. 

"  I  was  planning  to  return  it  to  him  in  the 
morning !  "  he  said  wistfully. 

"  How  were  you  going  to  explain  your  posses- 
sion of  it?  " 

"  That  I  purchased  it  from  Pietro  Masetto  in 
America." 

"  And  what  reason  would  you  give  for  retain- 
ing it  so  long  after  you  had  discovered  the  right- 
ful owner?  " 

"  That  it  had  been  stolen  again,  of  course !  " 

"  By  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito?  Oh,  no, 
Kirke,  the  time  isn't  ripe  for  that  astounding 
charge.  Signore  Lamberti  would  find  that  too 
much  of  a  strain  upon  his  credulity.  Besides,  it 
isn't  fair  to  Pietro.  It  would  hopelessly  convict 
him  of  theft  in  the  Lambertis'  eyes  and,  though  I 
don't  pretend  to  understand  the  details  of  the 
story,  I'm  convinced  now  that  Count  Teodoro  was 
the  original  malefactor  in  the  violin's  first  dis- 
appearance as  he  was  in  its  second.  The 
drunken  shepherd's  story  has  convinced  me  of 
that.  Did  I  tell  you  the  details  of  his  experi- 
ence? I  heard  them,  of  course,  second-hand  dur- 
ing Marietta's  violent  dispute  with  Niccolo  the 
night  she  stabbed  him. 

"  His  name  is  Carlo  and  he  left  Beritola  the 
same  night  that  Pietro  Masetto  fled.  He  lived 


AINSWORTH,     DETECTIVE     275 

with  Niccolo  in  the  mountain  hut.  That  night 
he  started  to  walk  to  Naples  and  on  his  way 
down  the  trail  from  the  summit  he  heard  loud, 
angry  voices  near  our  own  villa  here.  As  he 
came  nearer  he  recognised  Pietro  and  Count 
Teodoro.  He  paused  to  watch  them  and  pres- 
ently saw  Pietro  pick  up  a  heavy  stone  and  strike 
his  companion  upon  the  head.  The  other 
dropped  heavily  to  the  ground  and  Pietro  fled 
madly  down  the  mountain.  Carlo  stopped,  sat- 
isfied himself  that  the  wound  was  not  serious, 
and  went  his  way.  He  was  fond  of  Pietro  and 
despised  Count  Teodoro,  so  he  left  without  men- 
tioning the  occurrence.  He  did  not  appear  in 
the  valley  again  until  San  Bertolo's  day  when 
the  wine  loosened  his  tongue  and  he  told  Niccolo 
the  story.  We  haven't  any  very  direct  evidence 
to  prove  that  Count  Teodoro  was  the  original 
thief,  but  you  couldn't  convince  me  otherwise! " 

"  Nor  me !  "  agreed  Kirke,  and  he  filled  out  his 
chum's  story  with  the  events  of  the  morning. 

"Ah,  that  supplies  the  missing  link,"  ex- 
claimed Phil.  "  Besides  his  superstition  about 
the  violin's  luck,  Count  Teodoro  had  the  instru- 
ment stolen  in  accordance  with  his  plan  to  de- 
prive the  musician  of  his  inspiration  so  he 
couldn't  finish  the  prize  opera,  thus  depriving 
the  family  of  their  sole  means  to  pay  off  the 
villa  tax.  Then  he  proceeds  to  pay  the  tax  him- 
self and  uses  his  power  over  the  family  to  force 


276  '  T  E  A  U  M  E  K  E  I 

the  girl  to  accept  him  or  suffer  the  consequences. 
I'm  glad  you  introduced  him  to  an  American 
fist." 

"  Is  there  any  way  we  can  help  them?  " 
"Wait!  In  my  opinion  they  are  tolerably 
safe  for  the  present.  I  wish  I  could  have  a  talk 
with  that  fool  Pietro.  He  could  clear  up  one  or 
two  points  that  are  more  than  puzzling  at  pres- 
ent." Phil  rose  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
chum's  shoulder.  "  Kirke,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"  something  is  going  to  happen  in  this  valley  of 
Beritola  and  it's  going  to  happen  soon! " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SHADOWS 

PHIL  took  the  Stradivarius  to  Naples  the 
following  morning,  first  locking  the  case,  of 
which  he  retained  the  key,  and  later  placing  it 
in  the  safe  deposit  vault  with  his  own  hands. 

The  days  that  followed  seemed  unnatural. 
Shadows  had  obtruded  themselves  upon  the  sun- 
lit valley.  Summer  bloomed  into  radiant  ma- 
turity and  August  blended  imperceptibly  into 
September.  Peaches  hung  in  the  orchards, 
pears  were  ripening  in  golden  clusters,  and  in  the 
vineyards  grapes,  royal  in  size  and  colour, 
purpled  upon  the  vines.  ! 

Happiness,  however,  seemed  to  have  fled  from 
the  valley.  The  Lambertis  grew  quiet  and  re- 
served; Beatrice  drooped  beneath  a  burden  of 
anxiety,  and  Kirke,  well  knowing  the  cause  and 
helpless  to  right  it,  worked  fiercely  at  his  pic- 
ture to  still  the  ache  in  his  heart.  As  he  had  ex- 
pected, Count  Teodoro's  brutal  prophecy  that  the 
loss  of  the  villa  would  stifle  Signore  Lamberti's 
inspiration  and  perhaps  kill  the  old  Signorina 
rang  persistently  in  the  girl's  ears  and  alas !  rang 
true.  Duty  was  pointing  an  inexorable  finger  at 
the  castle  and  the  Count.  Kirke  longed  to  return 

977 


278  TEAUMEREI 

the  Stradivarius  and  expose  Count  Teodoro's  in- 
famy, but  Phil  resolutely  opposed  the  daily  sug- 
gestion with  good-humoured  forbearance. 

"  Go  back  to  your  picture,  Kirke,  and  stop  fret- 
ting ! "  he  advised  one  morning.  "  The  Lam- 
bertis  are  all  safe  for  another  month.  Count 
Teodoro,  I  believe,  appeared  at  the  villa  yester- 
day and  made  a  formal  request  for  Beatrice's 
hand.  The  family  know  the  whole  story  and  the 
alternative  if  she  refuses.  Signore  Lamberti 
had  a  violent  outbreak  of  temper  at  the  Count's 
dastardly  action  and  the  old  Signorina  heartily 
endorses  him.  Beatrice  has  been  given  a  month 
in  which  to  make  her  decision.  In  the  mean- 
time a  great  many  things  can  happen,  and  — ' 
he  added  mentally  — "  will!  " 

Although  the  original  purpose  of  his  noc- 
turnal exploits  had  been  accomplished  in  the  re- 
covery of  the  Stradivarius,  Phil  continued  to  dis- 
appear each  night  when  darkness  settled  over  the 
valley  and  his  odd  conduct  became  more  of  a 
mystery  than  ever.  Once,  Kirke  entered  his 
chum's  room  in  the  early  morning  to  find  that 
Mr.  Ainsworth  had  been  absent  all  night;  more 
to  Kirke's  further  mystification,  he  returned 
from  Naples  in  Tony's  ramshackle  cart,  clad  in 
a  flashy,  ready-made  suit  and  grinning  cheerfully 
at  his  friend's  astonishment.  Kirke  could  have 
sworn  that  the  culprit  had  not  left  Beritola  the 
night  before.  The  fact  remained,  however.  Mr. 


SHADOWS  279 

Ainsworth  had  left  the  villa  attired  in  his  usual 
irreproachable  manner;  in  the  morning  he  had 
appeared  in  a  plaid  suit  of  atrocious  cut,  weakly 
explaining  "  that  he  had  taken  a  tremendous 
shine  to  it,  had  cast  off  his  old  suit  in  Naples 
and  in  idle  surrender  to  a  whim  had  worn  the 
new  one  home! "  His  air  proclaimed  his  secret 
conviction  that  Kirke  would  not  believe  him  and 
in  this  he  was  not  mistaken.  Mr.  Ainsworth's 
sudden  change  of  taste  was  too  incredible.  Be- 
sides, though  he  sought  to  conceal  it,  Kirke  saw 
that  his  wrist  had  been  bandaged  —  not  in  a 
clumsy,  amateurish  manner,  but  skilfully  enough 
to  have  been  the  work  of  a  surgeon.  Inquiry 
concerning  this  elicited  the  brief  explanation 
that  the  owner  of  the  bandaged  wrist  "  had  just 
tumbled  off  a  rock  and  got  a  bit  scratched  up !  " 
Thoroughly  mystified,  Kirke  asked  no  further 
questions.  Phil's  reticence,  however,  hurt  him. 
Certainly,  he  reasoned,  the  all-night  absence,  the 
plaid  suit  and  the  bandaged  arm  were  not  the  re- 
sult of  an  uneventful  night  as  his  chum  had  inti- 
mated. 

Kirke  found  the  month  of  grace  accorded  the 
Lambertis  by  Count  Teodoro  a  welcome  relief 
after  the  worry  of  daily  expectation.  Yes,  as 
usual  Phil  was  right.  A  great  many  things 
could  happen  in  a  month !  In  a  short  time  now 
the  picture  would  be  finished  and  despatched  to 
Salvatore  for  the  Paris  Exhibition.  Then,  when 


280  TRAUMEREI 

the  master's  dictum  had  proven  his  creative 
equality  — 

Ah!  yes  —  it  had  indeed  been  a  queer  tangle! 
How  strangely  his  own  life  had  been  interwoven 
with  the  history  of  an  old  violin.  The  instru- 
ment that  Antonius  Stradivarius  had  made  for 
Camillo  Lamberti  in  the  eighteenth  century  had 
been  the  cause  of  the  little  drama  playing  itself 
out  in  this  rose-vale  of  Beritola  —  a  drama  in 
which  he  and  Phil  had  enrolled  themselves  as 
actors. 

And  as  the  picture  approached  completion,  an- 
other interesting  item  appeared  in  the  Neapoli- 
tan Tribuna. 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito,"  it  read,  "  who, 
it  will  be  remembered,  recently  discovered  a 
method  for  making  diamonds  of  exceptional 
purity  and  brilliancy,  has  sent,  by  special  mes- 
senger, some  samples  of  his  work  to  the  King 
and  his  diamond  expert,  who  passed  most  fa- 
vourably upon  the  gems.  Count  Teodoro  is  now 
in  receipt  of  an  order  for  the  crown  jewels.  The 
entire  kingdom  is  amazed  at  the  scientist's  un- 
usual discovery." 

Kirke  pointed  out  the  item  to  his  chum. 

"  Do  you  know,  Kirke,"  Phil  said  slowly  as  he 
tossed  the  paper  aside,  "  I'm  inclined  to  believe 
that  there's  a  great  deal  more  to  Count  Teodoro's 
amazing  discovery  than  most  people  think !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  PICTURE 

T7TRKE  stared  critically  at  his  picture.  It 
I  *•  was  done,  quite  done.  The  afternoon  sun- 
light, filtering  through  the  window,  threw  a  halo 
of  gold  over  it  and  the  artist  fancied  that  it  was 
Nature's  sanctification  of  the  first  product  of  his 
awakened  ambition.  No,  his  brush  had  not  lost 
its  cunning.  The  picture  more  than  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  the  old  student  days  with  Salvatore. 
The  canvas  before  him  bore  a  lake,  the  waters 
kissed  by  the  green  fire  of  a  southern  moon 
hanging  but  a  slender  sickle  far  above.  In  the 
trail  of  moonlight  rocked  a  canoe,  fashioned, 
one  fancied,  of  the  fairy  glow  that  lay  across  the 
water  from  shore  to  shore.  Within  it  a  girl 
bent  lightly  to  a  paddle  whose  coat  of  water- 
silver  had  flung  off  a  shower  of  jewel-drops; 
veritable  moonstones  of  imprisoned  mist  and 
moonlight,  they  seemed,  dripping  back  into  the 
water  whence  they  had  leaped  at  the  touch  of  the 
silver  paddle.  The  moon-mist  mantled  the  girl's 
figure  in  a  gauze  of  silver  fire;  it  floated  about 
her  head  like  a  veil,  bright  against  the  midnight 
shadows  of  her  hair ;  it  glorified  the  face  beneath 
it,  a  face  which  seemed  indeed  the  radiant  em- 

3*1 


282 

bodiment  of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  from  which 
the  dark  eyes  mocked  an  unseen  watcher  in  the 
fore-ground.  The  lake  shore  was  steeped  in 
shadows.  At  intervals,  however,  the  darkness 
resolved  itself  into  irregular  lines  of  cypress  and 
ilex  pointing  heavenward  like  ghostly  fingers  of 
the  nignt.  A  ridge  of  mountains  lay  across  the 
water ;  their  slopes  were  sheathed  in  the  iris  shad- 
ows of  the  night,  but  the  summits  had  caught 
the  greenish-silver  glory  of  the  southern  moon 
and  lay  bright  against  a  starry  sky. 

Nocturnia!  A  host  of  memories  rose  and 
wreathed  the  picture  in  an  iridescent  halo.  Yes, 
this  picture  before  him  was  indeed  a  tangible 
expression  of  the  fire  of  inspiration  in  his  veins 
and  his  love  for  the  girl  whose  face  looked  back 
at  him  from  the  canvas.  "  Buona,  notte,  Sig- 
nore  Americano!  "  Ah !  how  vividly  the  words 
came  back ! 

In  accordance  with  his  strict  commands, 
Kirke  was  quite  alone  in  the  Villa  Spa  Gett. 
Cook  and  housekeeper  had  departed  early  in  the 
day  on  a  sight-seeing  trip  to  Napoli  and  Vesuvius 
with  Tony.  Tony's  eloquence  and  powers  of 
graphic  description,  coupled  with  his  expert 
knowledge  of  all  desirable  sights,  fitted  him  pe- 
culiarly for  the  office  of  tourist  guide,  as  he  had 
gravely  assured  Eccellenza  Bentley  that  morn- 
ing, and  but  for  that  accursed  conspiracy  he 
would  long  ago  have  made  his  fortune  exhibit- 


THE     PICTURE  283 

ing  the  sights  of  his  native  city  to  generous 
strangers. 

Phil,  too,  had  been  absent  since  the  morning. 
The  artist  had  wished  to  finish  his  picture  in  un- 
broken quiet,  and  save  for  the  chirp  of  the  moun- 
tain birds  and  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  cicadas 
his  wish  had  been  gratified.  Now  in  the  waning 
afternoon  his  eyes  burned  and  his  body  ached  in 
the  grip  of  nervous  exhaustion.  With  a  sigh 
of  relief  he  flung  himself  down  upon  the 
studio  couch  and  slept  the  sleep  of  utter  weari- 
ness. 

When  he  awoke,  the  room  was  cool  and  dark. 
A  breeze  redolent  with  the  odour  of  pine  blew 
down  from  the  mountain  \  and  rustled  the  win- 
dow curtain  beside  him.  Lazily  the  American 
arose  and  stared  out  into  the  cool  darkness  that 
shrouded  tree  and  mountain.  It  was  all  so  won- 
derfully peaceful  after  the  nerve  strain  of  the 
day.  High  above  on  the  mountain  ridge  a  light 
twinkled  brightly  in  Niccolo's  eyrie  hut  and  the 
plaintive  sounds  of  the  bagpipe  floated  weirdly 
through  the  pines. 

Caught  by  the  sound  of  a  stealthy  rustling, 
Kirke  carelessly  looked  down  at  the  bushes  be- 
neath his  window.  A  peasant  stood  below, 
staring  intently,  it  seemed,  at  the  Villa  Spa  Gett. 
The  moon,  serenely  sailing  out  from  a  cloud, 
suddenly  illumined  his  face  and  Kirke  drew  back 
in  shadow,  his  heart  bounding  in  intense  ex- 


284  TBAUMEREI 

citement.  It  was  Pietro  Masetto!  The  lad's 
face  was  thinner,  his  eyes  more  anxious  and  mel- 
ancholy, but  there  was  no  mistake.  The  ragged 
Italian  who  had  sold  him  the  Stradivarius  stood 
below,  unconscious  of  the  silent  watcher  at  the 
window. 

Pietro  Masetto!  He  alone  could  clear  up  the 
mystery  of  the  Stradivarius.  With  a  bound 
Kirke  descended  the  stairs  —  caution  forgotten 
in  an  absorbing  desire,  but  Pietro,  catching  the 
sound  of  the  running  footsteps,  turned  and 
fled. 

"  Pietro !  "  called  the  American  softly,  belated 
caution  warning  him  that  the  boy's  visit  was 
doubtless  secret,  but  the  Italian  ran  on  up  the 
mountainside,  climbing  with  the  agility  of  a 
frightened  deer.  Eagerly  the  American  fol- 
lowed. Why  was  the  fool  running  away  when 
it  was  to  his  advantage  to  wait?  he  wondered  in 
an  unreasoning  burst  of  anger.  The  question 
speedily  answered  itself.  Pietro's  complicity  in 
the  disappearance  of  the  Stradivarius  and  his  at- 
tack upon  Count  Teodoro  made  an  open  visit  to 
Beritola  quite  impossible.  Moreover,  he  did  not 
know  the  identity  of  his  pursuer. 

On  and  on  they  went,  stumbling  and  scram- 
bling through  the  underbrush.  A  huge  boulder 
loomed  up  in  the  American's  path  and  a  burly 
figure,  oddly  muffled,  stepped  suddenly  from  the 
shadows  and  barred  his  progress.  Still  intent 


THE     PICTURE  285 

upon  the  fleeing  Pietro,  Kirke  brushed  roughly 
by.  As  he  did  so  a  heavy  club  descended  upon 
his  head  and  the  American  slid  down  upon  the 
mountainside  in  a  senseless  heap. 

Back  at  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  the  Americans' 
goat,  presented  to  them  in  a  burst  of  generosity 
by  Marietta  who  had  frankly  refused  to  give 
the  animal  a  character  endorsement,  had  been 
roused  by  the  mysterious  procession  of  figures 
flitting  about  the  silent  house.  The  chase  had 
been  mildly  interesting.  Later,  however,  when  a 
slight  figure  had  made  a  fleeting  visit  to  the  de- 
serted house  and  disappeared,  and  a  second  vis- 
itor had  arrived,  strangely  cautious,  the  goat's 
excitement  grew.  With  a  wild  tug  he  strained 
at  his  rope  and  loosened  it,  colliding  in  his  mad 
bolt  for  freedom  with  the  cautious  figure  de- 
scending the  villa  steps.  The  mysterious  visitor 
fell  with  a  grunt,  striking  his  head  heavily 
against  the  sharp  corner  of  the  bottom  step,  and 
lay  motionless. 

The  night  breeze  presently  revived  the  Ameri- 
can lying  upon  the  mountainside.  He  sat  up, 
mechanically  touching  a  deep  cut  upon  his  fore- 
head. A  stream  of  blood  trickled  slowly  down 
his  face,  and  he  stared  vaguely  about  him,  find- 
ing the  dark  outlines  of  rock  and  bush  indistinct 
and  unfamiliar.  Where  was  he?  he  wondered 
dully.  Why  did  his  head  throb  so?  As  he 
staggered  weakly  to  his  feet  the  events  of  the 


286  TRAUMEKEI 

evening  flashed  over  him  in  a  series  of  mental 
pictures,  curiously  evanescent.  The  fleeing 
Pietro,  the  burly  figure  in  the  path,  the  jagged 
rock  upon  which  he  had  fallen  —  yes,  yes,  it 
was  all  quite  clear !  An  icy  dread  permeated  his 
body,  and  reeling  unsteadily  down  the  mountain 
path,  he  hurried  back  to  the  villa. 

In  the  terrible  premonition  that  obsessed  his 
mind,  he  failed  to  notice  the  motionless  figure 
beside  the  porch.  The  stairway  seemed  never- 
ending  ;  the  door  of  the  studio  oddly  distant.  On 
the  threshold  he  struck  a  match  with  shaking 
fingers  and  as  its  light  faintly  illumined  the 
studio,  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  doorway 
with  a  groan.  His  foreboding  was  justified. 
The  picture  was  gone ! 

The  canvas  had  been  cut  from  the  frame  with 
his  own  palette  knife  lying  perilously  near.  The 
match  in  his  hand  burned  his  fingers  and  he 
dropped  it,  standing  numbly  in  the  darkness. 
The  persistent  throb  of  the  wound  grew  more  in- 
tense. Through  his  head  flashed  the  words, 
"Phil,  Riley's  bell!  Phil,  Eiley's  bell!"  over 
and  over  again.  Yes,  he  must  summon  Phil. 
Blindly  he  obeyed  the  suggestion,  staggering 
weakly  down  the  stairway  to  the  kitchen.  A 
great  whirring  sounded  in  his  ears;  shadowy 
forms  danced  grotesquely  before  him,  but  in  spite 
of  all  he  fumbled  along  the  wall  until  he  found 
the  hook  and  the  bell-rope  that  went  up  over  the 


THE     PICTURE  287 

rafters.  The  next  instant  Riley's  great  dinner 
bell  clanged  out  raucously  over  the  quiet  valley 
and  Kirke  fell  heavily  to  the  kitchen  floor,  an 
ugly  stream  flowing  from  the  cut  on  his  fore- 
head. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

BEATRICE 

T)HIL,  lazily  wandering  homeward  from  one 
•*•  of  his  nocturnal  exploits,  halted  abruptly  at 
the  clang  of  Riley's  bell  and  frowned  in  mysti- 
fication. Had  the  Irishman  returned?  No,  the 
tourists  were  not  expected  until  later.  Kirke 
then  was  still  alone  in  the  mountain  cottage  and 
some  occurrence  of  an  unusual  nature  had 
prompted  him  to  ring  the  bell.  For  what?  As- 
sistance? At  the  thought,  Phil  bounded  up  the 
trail  in  alarm.  The  prostrate  figure  at  the  side 
of  the  porch  caught  his  eye  and,  genuinely 
startled,  he  paused  beside  it  and  struck  a  match. 
The  light  fell  upon  the  ghastly  face  of  Count 
Teodoro  di  Gomito.  In  growing  apprehension  he 
entered  the  kitchen  and  lit  the  lamp. 

Kirke  lay  upon  the  floor  in  what  seemed  to  his 
chum's  agonised  eyes  a  pool  of  blood.  Riley's 
huge  bell  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Phil  bent  over 
his  friend  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  cut  in  his 
forehead  was  ugly  and  jagged  to  be  sure,  but 
not  deep.  With  gentle  hands  he  washed  the  dirt 
away  and  bandaged  the  wounded  forehead  with 
his  handkerchief;  then  he  sought  Riley's  brandy 
flask  in  the  kitchen  closet  and  forced  it  between 


BEATRICE  289 

his  chum's  teeth.  Kirke  sat  up,  weak  and  faint, 
to  find  Phil  bending  over  him,  his  face  strangely 
white  and  compassionate. 

"  It's  all  right,  Kirke ! "  said  a  quiet  voice. 
"  You'll  be  stronger  now  in  a  second  or  so."  But 
with  returning  consciousness,  Kirke's  eyes  had 
grown  oddly  wild  and  startled. 

"You  don't  understand!"  he  said  unsteadily. 
"  The  picture !  The  picture  is  gone !  " 

"  Gone ! "  Phil  echoed  the  words  blankly. 
"  H'm,"  he  added  grimly,  "  our  worthy  landlord 
again,  eh !  " —  and  with  an  ominous  squaring  of 
chin  and  shoulders  he  left  the  kitchen  and  de- 
scended the  veranda  steps.  Count  Teodoro, 
however,  had  disappeared.  With  returning  con- 
sciousness it  seemed  he  had  slipped  stealthily 
away.  Phil  shrugged. 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  reflected,  frowning,  "  Ms  reck- 
oning is  inevitable  anyway !  Now,  Kirke,"  as  he 
hurried  back  to  the  kitchen,  "  if  you're  able,  I'd 
like  to  hear  exactly  what's  happened." 

Quite  coherently,  for  with  the  cessation  of  the 
flow  from  his  forehead  had  come  increasing 
strength,  Kirke  recounted  the  events  of  the  even- 
ing, the  glimpse  of  Pietro  Masetto,  the  chase  up 
the  mountain,  the  cloaked  figure,  and  the  dis- 
covery of  the  empty  frame.  Long  before  he  had 
finished,  however,  there  came  a  sharp  rapping  at 
the  villa  door  and  Lauretta  appeared,  her  long, 
red-brown  eyes  ablaze  with  excitement. 


290  T  B  A  U  M  E  E  E  I 

"  Signore  Ainsworth,"  she  began,  but  Phil  with 
a  warning  gesture  stepped  out  upon  the  porch 
and  closed  the  door.  An  instinctive  prescience 
had  warned  him  of  the  trend  of  Lauretta's  mes- 
sage. 

"  Kirke,"  he  said  kindly,  when  he  re-appeared 
— "  there  are  unexpected  complications  at  the 
Lamberti  villa  and  they  want  you.  If  you  are 
able,  I  think  you'd  better  go  back  with  Lauretta." 

It  was  a  dizzy  walk  through  the  valley,  a  walk 
of  which  Kirke  afterward  retained  but  the  dim- 
mest of  memories.  Still  he  was  vividly  con- 
scious of  a  blur  of  incidents:  of  Signore  Lam- 
berti's  kindly  hand  upon  his  shoulder  at  the 
villa  door;  of  a  room  old-fashioned  and  dimly 
familiar  in  which  the  old  Italian  warmly  in- 
sisted upon  helping  him  to  a  chair  and  then  went 
quietly  away;  of  Beatrice  bending  compassion- 
ately over  him  with  a  glass  of  brandy  in  her 
hand,  urging  him  to  drink  in  a  voice  that  sent  the 
blood  surging  wildly  through  his  veins. 

Still,  somehow,  it  was  a  new  Beatrice,  he 
fancied,  that  bent  over  him  to-night.  Not  the 
mocking  Nereid  nor  the  Goddess  of  the  Storm; 
not  the  capricious  hostess  of  the  festa  dance  nor 
yet  the  moon-clad  nymph  of  the  chapel  lake. 
From  the  sable  mist  of  her  hair  to  the  eyes  and 
cheeks  blazing  so  strangely,  this  girl  seemed  a 
beautiful  tigress  alive  with  a  passionate  anger. 


BEATRICE  291 

Mechanically  Kirke  drank  the  brandy  and 
shrugged  impatiently,  annoyed  at  his  own  weak- 
ness ;  but  meeting  Beatrice's  eyes,  he  bravely  es- 
sayed a  smile  of  reassurance  and  felt  that  it  was 
strangely  twisted  and  unsuccessful.  A  wave  of 
colour  swept  hotly  over  the  girl's  face  and  the 
anger  in  her  dark  eyes  gave  way  to  a  wonderful 
softness,  a  tearful  softness,  it  seemed,  of  mingled 
fire  and  velvet. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  unconsciously  touching  the 
bandage  upon  his  forehead  with  a  gentle  hand, 
"  you  are  hurt.  I  did  not  know  when  I  sent 
Lauretta."  Her  face  grew  very  white.  "  Oh ! '' 
she  went  on  passionately,  anger  leaping  up  again 
in  her  eyes,  "I  —  I  did  not  think  he  would 
dare  —  I  —  I  did  not  think  it  would  end  so  for 
you !  " 

"  It  —  it  is  nothing !  "  stammered  Kirke,  but 
even  as  he  spoke  he  lay  back,  a  little  white  and 
shaken,  and  closed  his  eyes,  for  the  touch  of  the 
girl's  hand  upon  his  forehead  had  set  his  pulse 
to  bounding  violently  and  the  throb  of  the  wound 
was  growing  painfully  intense.  Hazily  he  was 
conscious  that  Beatrice  had  noiselessly  slipped 
away  and  returned,  that  she  was  bending  over 
him  again  a  little  frightened  and  with  a  power- 
ful effort  he  opened  his  eyes,  opened  them  to 
find  himself  staring  blankly  at  his  picture  of 
Nocturnia  held  up  before  him  by  the  trembling 
fingers  of  Nocturnia  herself. 


292  TRAUMEREI 

There  was  an  odd  radiance  in  Beatrice's  eyes. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "in  spite  of  all,  Count 
Teodoro  was  too  late !  " 

Kirke  stared  mutely  at  the  canvas,  but  his 
eyes  were  eloquent.  He  felt  oddly  dazed  by  the 
inconsequent  rush  of  events,  by  the  impetuous 
story  pouring  excitedly  now  from  Beatrice's  lips, 
and,  at  first,  by  his  own  inability  to  follow  her. 
Bit  by  bit  it  all  became  clear :  Lauretta's  chat  in 
the  castle  kitchen  with  Therese;  Count  Teo- 
doro's  careless  conference  with  Giacomo  that  the 
girl  had  overheard  and  her  startled  flight  to  Be- 
atrice. With  Giacomo  on  the  mountainside 
alert  for  complications,  Count  Teodoro's  plan  to 
enter  the  mountain  cottage,  attack  the  solitary 
artist  and  cut  away  his  picture,  upon  this  tri- 
umphal day  of  achievement,  had  constituted  a 
picturesque  vendetta  highly  attractive  to  the 
Italian's  theatric  taste. 

"I  —  I  really  went  to  warn  you,"  finished  the 
girl  uncertainly,  but  again  as  she  met  the  Ameri- 
can's eyes,  the  hot  colour  swept  over  her  face  and 
she  turned  away.  "  But  the  cottage  was  empty 
and  dark,  and  I  thought,  of  course,  I  had  come 
too  late.  When  I  found  that  the  picture  was 
still  in  the  studio,  I  cut  the  canvas  with  your 
palette  knife.  I  —  I  could  not  carry  the  frame." 

Kirke  rose  unsteadily,  all  his  proud  plans  of 
waiting  for  Salvatore's  endorsement  of  his  cre- 
ative equality  lost  in  a  sweep  of  emotion. 


BEATRICE  293 

"  Beatrice !  "  he  began,  but  the  girl  shrank 
back  with  a  gesture  of  warning. 

"  Don't,"  she  pleaded  wildly,  "  don't  thank 
me !  '*  but  the  strain  of  the  past  weeks  culminat- 
ing in  these  climacteric  events  of  the  evening 
had  been  too  much  for  her  self-control.  There 
was  a  swift  glimmer  of  tears  on  the  long,  dark 
lashes,  and  with  a  mute  glance  at  the  American's 
white  face  and  bandaged  forehead,  she  hurried 
from  the  room. 

Again  the  queer  daze  from  the  throbbing 
wound  veiled  the  room  in  a  dancing  cobweb,  but 
this  time  the  face  that  glimmered  dimly  through 
it  was  the  face  of  the  old  Signorina  who  bent 
over  him  with  ithe  caressing  touch  of  the  eternal 
mother  in  her  fragile  hands. 

"  My  boy,"  she  said  with  gentle  dignity,  "  it 
has  been  a  very  hard  evening  for  us  all.  Signore 
Philip  has  come  for  you.  He  was  a  little  wor- 
ried." 

And  Kirke,  looking  up  into  the  tranquil  depths 
of  the  eyes  that  met  his,  felt  with  a  sudden  shock 
that  there  was  at  least  one  of  the  inmates  of  the 
villa  who  had  divined  the  tumult  of  his  heart. 

"  I've  been  up  to  Niccolo's  hut,"  explained  Phil 
as  they  climbed  the  trail  to  the  cottage,  and,  as 
Kirke  interrupted  with  a  question,  "yes,  Laur- 
etta told  me  the  whole  story.  I  thought  per- 
haps Niccolo  might  have  caught  a  glimpse  of 


294  TRAUMEREI 

Pietro,  but  there's  no  trace  of  him  anywhere  on 
the  mountain.  At  first,  before  Lauretta  ar- 
rived, I  was  inclined  to  think  that  Pietro  had 
been  a  decoy  to  lead  you  up  the  mountain  away 
from  home.  Now  I'm  convinced  that  when  you 
came  crashing  up  the  mountainside  after  Pietro, 
Giacomo  thought  you  were  pursuing  Count  Teo- 
doro  and  dealt  with  you  accordingly.  By  the 
way/'  he  added  with  a  grin,  "  the  tourists  have 
returned.  Seems  that  Tony  drove  so  madly  over 
the  hills  coming  back  that  the  bottom  of  the  cart 
fell  out  and  Gribbins  disappeared  from  view  with 
a  dull  thud.  He's  very  sore !  " 

Long  into  the  night,  the  Americans  discussed 
the  exciting  events  of  the  evening.  At  intervals, 
too,  there  were  muffled  disputes  in  the  downstairs 
bedroom  of  the  cook  and  housekeeper.  The 
Englishman  could  neither  forget  nor  forgive  his 
sudden  descent  into  the  prickly  pears  of  the 
mountainside.  More,  he  continued  to  blame 
Riley  and  Tony  impartially  as  he  rubbed  his 
damaged  spine  with  a  weird  concoction  of  vine- 
gar and  salt.  That  the  cut-throat  Tony  had 
planned  his  sudden  demise  and  deliberately 
kicked  the  bottom  out  of  his  ramshackle  cart 
with  unscrupulous  designs  upon  the  valued 
watch-chain  of  shillings  he  firmly  believed, 
nor  did  he  hesitate  to  express  his  senti- 
ments to  that  effect  as  he  rose  periodically  in  the 
night  to  bathe  his  spine,  until  the  Irishman  with 


295 

a  heated  objection  to  the  odour  of  the  home- 
made liniment,  unhesitatingly  threw  it  out  of  the 
window.  With  excessive  dignity  the  valet  re- 
turned to  bed,  and  unbroken  peace  settled  for  the 
first  time  that  eventful  evening  over  the  little 
mountain  cottage  among  the  pines. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

NOTES 

riRHE  picture  was  shipped  to  Salvatore  in  the 
-••  morning.  That  same  afternoon,  Beritola 
was  aroused  from  its  wonted  tranquillity  by  a 
new  sensation.  Since  the  advent  of  the  Pan- 
hard  with  its  sudden  explosion  nothing  had 
been  greeted  with  so  much  interest  and  awe.  A 
magnificent  coach  appeared  at  the  summit  of 
the  hillroad  from  Naples  and  rolled  grandly 
down  into  the  valley.  It  was  an  imposing 
equipage  likely  to  inspire  terror  and  respect 
wherever  it  went,  and  the  peasants  flocked  wide- 
eyed  from  their  houses  to  view  it.  The  coach- 
man and  footmen  were  resplendent  in  scarlet 
jackets  and  yellow  breeches,  their  post-boots  re- 
flecting the  sun  like  polished  mirrors.  The 
coachman  urged  his  prancing  horses  through  the 
crowd  and  struck  an  attitude,  as  he  drew  up  be- 
fore the  castle  door,  that  the  admiring  peasants 
never  forgot.  Phil  Ainsworth,  a  member  of  the 
crowd,  rightly  guessed  its  mission.  The  Royal 
Commission  and  a  diamond  expert  had  arrived 
to  inspect  Count  Teodoro's  diamonds. 

The  equipage  left  as  it  had  arrived,  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  the  coachman  snapping  his  whip  at  the 

296 


NOTES  297 

gaping  youngsters  with  amused  tolerance.  He 
was  a  very  great  man,  this  scarlet-coated  coach- 
man, and  these  simple  peasants  amused  him. 
The  Neapolitan  Tribuna,  recounted  the  visit  of 
the  Diamond  Commission  in  the  following  man- 
ner: 

"  The  Commissioners  appointed  by  the  Royal 
Authorities  to  inspect  the  diamonds  made  for  the 
Crown  by  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  were  the 
guests  of  the  eminent  scientist  at  his  castle  in 
Beritola   yesterday.     The   envoys   of  the   King 
were  courteously  permitted  to  inspect  the  lab- 
oratory (the  Count's  private  sanctum)  as  well 
as  the  crown  jewels  which  are  practically  fin- 
ished.    The  Commissioners,  whose  real  object  in 
visiting  Count  Teodoro  yesterday  was  an  inspec- 
tion of  the  diamonds,  expressed  themselves  as 
satisfied    and    delighted    with    the    nobleman's 
work.     Signore  Pamfilo  Mazzoni,  the  expert,  de- 
clares that  the  diamonds  outrival  the  natural 
product    in    purity    and    brilliance.    In    two 
weeks'  time,  during  which  the  Count  will  make 
the  largest  of  the  stones  ordered,  thereby  com- 
pleting his  work,    the  Commission  will  revisit 
the  scientist,  accompanied  by  a  detachment  of 
soldiery  under  whose  protection  the  diamonds 
will  be  carried  to  the  King.     The  number  of 
jewels  ordered  is  said  to  be  very  extensive." 

The  week  that  followed  this  announcement  in 
the  Italian  press  was  full  of  puzzling  occur- 


298  TBAUMEEEI 

rences  to  Signore  Lamberti.  One  morning  upon 
opening  the  front  door  of  the  villa  he  discov- 
ered beneath  it  a  slip  of  paper  which  had  evi- 
dently been  left  there  during  the  night.  It  was 
couched  in  careful  Italian  and  bore  these  words : 

Do  you  think  it  is  possible  to  make  diamonds? 

The  old  musician  regarded  the  mysterious  slip 
of  paper  in  great  astonishment.  The  strange 
question  recurred  to  him  many  times  during  the 
day  but  he  finally  dismissed  it,  convinced  that 
the  bit  of  paper  had  been  the  wind-tossed  frag- 
ment of  a  letter.  The  even  edges  of  the  paper 
and  the  absence  of  any  other  writing,  however, 
suggested  otherwise,  and  when,  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  he  found  another  slip  of  paper 
lying  in  the  hall  he  suspected  that  the  commu- 
nications were  meant  for  him  and  wondered 
greatly.  The  second  strip  of  writing  was  the 
duplicate  of  the  first  in  size  and  shape : 

You  know  the  formation  of  the  castle!    Think  it  over. 

The  old  Italian  obeyed  the  concluding  com- 
mand without  arriving  at  any  definite  explana- 
tion of  the  mystery.  The  writing  upon  each  of 
the  strips  was  uniformly  regular  and  hinted 
nothing  of  the  hand  that  had  penned  it.  The 
next  note  bore  his  name  and  removed  all  doubt 
from  his  mind  that  he  was  the  intended  recip- 


NOTES  299 

ient   of   the   mysterious   communications.     The 
contents  were  mystifying  and  suggestive: 

Diamonds  of  scientific  composition  and  secret  passages. 
What  do  they  suggest  to  Signore  Dioneo  Lamberti? 

The  question  made  him  very  uncomfortable. 
He  searched  the  bit  of  paper  for  some  clue  to 
the  identity  of  the  writer,  compared  it  with  the 
other  and  in  considerable  excitement  awaited 
the  next  one.  The  mysterious  messages  had  be- 
come the  opening  event  of  each  morning  and  in- 
variably lay  just  inside  the  door,  each  one  a  lit- 
tle more  comprehensive  than  the  predecessor. 
He  arose  early  and  sought  the  hallway.  The 
bit  of  paper  lay  there  as  he  had  expected.  It 
bore  the  following  pointed  query: 

Does  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito  impress  you  as  an  honest 
man  or  a  scientist? 

The  old  Italian  reddened  slightly  at  the  sig- 
nificant question.  Several  times  that  night  he 
crept  down  stairs  in  the  hope  of  intercepting  the 
unknown  messenger.  Quite  in  vain.  The  hall- 
way remained  free  from  ghostly  bits  of  paper 
and  he  returned  to  bed  thoroughly  mystified. 
In  spit o  of  his  vigilance  the  nocturnal  visitor 
had  eluded  him.  In  the  morning  the  slip  of 
paper  lay  inside  the  door  and  its  meaning  was 
self-evident : 

A  secret  passage  ending  on  the  shores  of  a  sea;  an  un- 


300  TBAUMEREI 

scrupulous  man  living  in  the  castle  from  whose  library 
the  passage  leads ;  a  sudden  discovery  of  the  way  to  make 
diamonds;  what  is  the  logical  conclusion? 

The  inference  was  so  very  obvious  that  the  old 
musician  flushed  hotly  at  the  insinuation  and 
dropped  the  paper,  turning  over  the  possibilities 
in  this  combination  of  facts  with  pained  sur- 
prise. Thus  the  sixth : 

The  royal  authorities  would  be  grateful  for  the  sugges- 
tion that  they  secretly  investigate  this  passage  before  they 
purchase  the  crown  diamonds.  Smuggling  is  a  serious  of- 
fence. The  author  of  this  note  knows  positively  that  the 
source  of  the  diamonds  in  question  is  not  a  combination 
of  chemical  substances. 

The  last  of  the  series  of  notes  was  brief  and 
to  the  point: 

It  is  your  duty  to  inform  the  authorities  immediately! 

The  truth  of  the  mysterious  command  im- 
pressed the  Italian  strongly.  It  was  obviously 
someone's  duty  to  warn  the  government  of  the 
fraud,  but  why,  he  asked  himself  in  great  per- 
plexity, had  not  the  author  of  the  notes  fol- 
lowed his  own  advice?  In  a  helpless  quandary 
he  consulted  Kirke,  carefully  arranging  the  notes 
upon  the  table  in  the  order  in  which  they  had 
arrived.  The  American  read  the  series  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Is  there  such  a  passage?  "  he  asked  finally. 


NOTES  301 

"  Yes,"  nodded  the  Italian  thoughtfully, 
"  there  is.  I  had  almost  forgotten  its  existence. 
There  is  an  underground  passage  tunnelled  from 
the  castle  through  the  hills  for  some  distance 
where  it  joins  a  series  of  natural  caverns,  and 
one  can  go  from  a  door  in  the  panelling  of  the  li- 
brary of  the  castle  straight  out  to  the  shores  of 
the  Tyrrhenian  Sea.  It  was  built  by  an  ances- 
tor of  mine  who  discovered  the  series  of  caverns 
from  the  sea  entrance  quite  by  chance  and  tun- 
nelled the  rest  of  the  way  to  the  castle.  It  was 
never  used  in  my  own  time." 

"  In  that  case,"  advised  Kirke  gravely,  "  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  your  duty  to  inform  the 
authorities  at  once.  The  unknown  author  of 
these  notes  has  presented  a  perfectly  logical 
case.  It  would,  as  he  suggests,  be  a  very  simple 
matter  to  smuggle  diamonds  to  the  castle 
through  the  passage.  But  I  fail  to  see  why  he 
has  not  warned  the  government  himself.  Evi- 
dently he  intends  to  leave  that  matter  to  you. 
May  I  have  these  notes  for  a  day  or  so?  I  should 
like  to  look  them  over  a  little  more  closely." 

Signore  Lamberti  absently  assented  and  Kirke 
left  him  seated  in  an  arm-chair  in  deep  preoc- 
cupation, puzzling  his  brain  for  the  precise 
phrases  in  which  to  reveal  the  situation  with- 
out conferring  the  entire  credit  upon  himself. 
The  unknown  author  of  the  notes,  he  told  him- 
self, was  the  government's  real  benefactor. 


302  TRAUMEEEI 

After  several  hours  of  careful  thought  and  many 
unsatisfactory  experiments,  the  following  com- 
munication was  dispatched  to  the  royal  authori- 
ties in  a  personal  letter  to  Benedetto  Abbato, 
requesting  his  cousin  to  deliver  the  enclosed 
notification,  if  possible,  to  those  who  were  not 
friendly  to  Count  Teodoro. 

The  written  warning  was  as  follows : 

It  has  been  suggested  to  me  that  I  inform  you  of  the 
peculiar  structure  of  the  castle  iu  which  Count  Teodoro 
di  Gomito  now  lives.  There  is  a  secret  passage  leading 
from  the  castle's  library,  tunnelled  through  a  range  of  hills 
to  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea.  Midway  between  Beritola  and 
the  sea  this  passage,  built  in  the  old,  exciting  days  before 
we  had  the  blessing  of  a  United  Italy,  joins  a  series  of 
natural  caves,  thereby  rendering  possible  an  underground 
journey  of  about  a  mile  from  the  castle  to  the  sea. 

If  a  secret  watch  were  kept  upon  the  shore  entrance  to 
this  passage,  the  writer  thinks  it  would  reveal  the  source 
of  the  Count's  diamonds  which  could  easily  be  smuggled 
in  at  that  wild  point  of  the  coast  and  brought  to  the  castle 
in  secrecy." 

DIONEO  LAMBEBTI. 

Beritola,  Italia. 

Several  times  the  old  Italian  decided  to  de- 
stroy the  letter  and  ignore  the  unknown  bene- 
factor's suggestion  entirely.  Suppose  it  should 
prove  to  be  an  unfriendly  ruse  to  strain  further 
his  relations  with  the  government?  If  the  in- 
formation conveyed  in  the  series  of  notes  proved 
untrue,  that  would  of  course  be  the  inevitable 
result.  Did  the  letter  sound  like  a  jealous  ac- 
cusation of  the  man  in  whose  ancestral  domain 


NOTES  303 

the  accused  smuggler  dwelt?  That  was  scarcely 
possible,  he  told  himself  deprecatingly,  when 
there  was  no  such  feeling  in  the  heart  of  the 
writer.  After  anxiously  weighing  each  point  in 
his  contemplated  action,  he  returned  to  his  orig- 
inal decision  and  sent  the  letter. 

So  Count  Teodoro  was  the  rascal  Emilia  had 
always  declared  him  to  be!  It  was  incredible! 
.  .  .  Yet  the  scientist's  aid  when  the  Strad- 
ivarius  was  stolen  had  been  invaluable,  and  Sig- 
nore  Larnberti,  in  the  secret  tribunal  of  his  soul 
where  he  frequently  arraigned  himself,  had  been 
a  little  horrified  to  find  that  it  had  not  mitigated 
a  certain  quiet  dislike  of  his  neighbour  which  he 
had  tried  in  vain  to  conquer.  .  .  .  Yes,  he 
had  been  deeply  sensible  of  the  nobleman's  gen- 
erosity in  those  first,  dark  hours  after  the  Strad- 
ivarius  had  disappeared.  Had  not  Count  Teo- 
doro hired  a  host  of  detectives  to  search  every 
peasant's  house  without  explanation  or  permis- 
sion (a  proceeding  secretly  disapproved  by  the 
inmates  of  the  villa)  and  firmly  announced  that 
their  remuneration  would  come  from  him  alone? 
.  .  .  To  be  sure  it  had  been  a  little  galling, 
this  enforced  acceptance  of  another's  pecuniary 
aid,  but  Signore  Lamberti  had  quietly  and  grace- 
fully accepted  the  inevitable  and  stubbornly 
fought  against  an  instinctive  aversion  which  had 
in  the  end  received  an  unexpected  impetus  in 
the  Count's  officious  payment  of  the  villa's  tax. 


304  TBAUMEREI 

"Yes,  he  has  always  coveted  enormous 
wealth,"  mused  Signore  Lamberti,  "  that  by  his 
tempting  offers  he  might  buy  back  every  peas- 
ant's home  and  make  of  this  valley  a  principality 
once  more  with  Count  Teodoro  as  the  ruler." 

And  with  his  hands  clasped  thoughtfully  be- 
hind his  white  head,  the  Italian  fell  to  thinking 
of  the  old  days  when  he,  too,  had  lived  in  the 
castle.  How  he  had  planned  his  life  and  a 
musical  career,  he  thought  with  a  faint  smile,, 
and  how  differently  his  repeated  misfortunes 
had  ordered  it !  What  would  eventually  happen 
to  the  old  villa,  the  last  possession  of  the  Lam- 
bertis?  What  would  be  the  outcome  of  the 
royal  investigation  of  the  secret  passage?  The 
two  questions  were  presently  replaced  by  an  ab- 
sorbing third.  Who  was  the  author  of  those 
mystifying  notes? 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   SECRET   PASSAGE 

KIRKE  seated  himself  at  the  luncheon  table 
with  a  peculiar  gleam  in  his  eyes  and 
pushed  a  small  bundle  of  papers  across  the  table 
to  his  chum. 

"  Look  them  over !  "  he  said  briefly. 

Phil  obeyed  in  apparent  mystification. 

"  What's  it  all  about?  "  he  demanded,  looking 
up. 

Kirke  looked  squarely  into  his  friend's  eyes. 

"  I  think  you  know,"  he  suggested  bluntly. 
"  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  your  monkey- 
shines  of  late,"  he  went  on.  "  You  stay  out  all 
night  and  come  back  from  Naples  in  the  morn- 
ing with  Tony  when  I  could  have  sworn  that  you 
hadn't  left  the  valley,  wearing  a  giddy  plaid 
suit,  to  say  nothing  of  having  your  wrist  care- 
fully bandaged." 

"  I  think  I  explained  all  that,  to  my  own  sat- 
isfaction ! "  interpolated  Phil. 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  entirely  to  mine ! "  Kirke 
paused.  "  See  here,  Phil,"  he  added  suddenly, 
"  you  wrote  those  notes  to  Signore  Lamtoerti.  I 
have  the  proof  here  at  hand  rescued  from  the 
scrap  basket ! "  He  pushed  a  crumpled  slip  of 

305 


306  TRAUMEREI 

paper  across  the  table  until  it  lay  beside  the 
others.  The  writing  was  identical. 

Phil  shrugged. 

"  H'm ! "  he  sniffed  sarcastically,  "  you're 
something  of  a  detective  yourself,  I  see.  Well, 
if  you  must  know  it,  I  did  write  those  notes  and 
I  have  every  reason  for  wanting  my  identity  kept 
secret  as  you'll  presently  see.  I  had  planned  to 
tell  you  a  little  later. 

"  In  the  first  place,  if  you  must  have  the  whole 
story  now,  although  I  told  you  all  the  details 
concerning  the  recovery  of  your  Stradivarius,  I 
made  certain  reservations.  For  one  thing,  one 
night  as  I  lay  watching  the  castle  library,  Count 
Teodoro  to  my  great  surprise,  suddenly  stepped 
out  of  the  panelling  along  the  side  wall.  An- 
other time,  Giacomo  disappeared  in  the  same 
mysterious  fashion,  and  I  grew  interested.  It 
was  rather  a  novel  experience  in  my  life  to  see 
substantial  individuals  step  through  solid  walls! 

"When  we  first  read  of  Count  Teodoro's 
scientific  discovery,  however,  I  confess  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  it  might  have  any  connection 
with  the  sliding  panel  in  the  library  wall,  but 
the  night  after  I  regained  possession  of  the 
Stradivarius,  I  went  up  to  the  castle  again  chiefly 
because  I  was  very  curious  about  the  mysterious 
exit.  I  had  determined  to  investigate  it  if  the 
chance  were  forthcoming.  That  the  ghost  music 
might  not  stop  too  soon  after  the  disappearance 


r 


THE     SECRET     PASSAGE    307 

of  the  Stradivarius  from  the  secret  recess,  I  took 
along  my  flute  and  the  bandit  rig  and  carried  out 
the  program  of  the  other  evenings.  Beside,  I'll 
admit,  I  took  a  malicious  delight  in  scaring  those 
two  cowards. 

"  If  you'll  remember,  Kirke,  that  item  in  the 
Tribuna  concerning  the  Count's  manufactured 
diamonds  had  appeared  just  the  day  before. 
Well,  as  I  settled  myself  beneath  the  library 
window  with  the  flute  in  readiness,  Count  Teo- 
doro  stepped  forth  from  the  wall,  spread  out  a 
collection  of  something  upon  the  table  and  re- 
marked, 'An  unusually  fine  assortment,  Gia- 
como!  These  will  do  for  His  Royal  Highness.' 
I  craned  my  neck  from  behind  the  rock  to  see  the 
fine  assortment  but  was  unsuccessful.  It 
whetted  my  desire,  however,  to  investigate  the 
sliding  panel. 

"  That  night  Giacomo  and  the  Count  were  in- 
credibly nervous.  The  butler  had  described  the 
phosphorescent  bandit  under  the  window,  and 
at  the  slightest  noise  they  both  started  violently 
and  stared  at  each  other.  At  midnight  I  played 
the  Miserere  again  from  behind  the  rock  and 
the  cowards  fled  instantly  as  they  had  the  night 
before,  leaving  the  library  windows  unlocked. 
I  climbed  in  without  loss  of  time,  still  evoking 
strains  from  the  haunted  flute.  But  try  as  I 
might,  I  could  not  find  the  panel  spring  and  was 
obliged  to  climb  out  again. 


308  TRAUMEREI 

"  For  several  nights  I  revisited  the  rocks  out- 
side the  window  in  the  hope  that  either  Giacomo 
or  the  Count  would  press  the  panel  spring  from 
the  library  side  and  enable  me  to  conjecture  its 
exact  whereabouts.  I  purposely  omitted  the 
ghost  flute;  and  presently,  as  the  two  regained 
their  courage,  they  took  to  spending  their  even- 
ings again  in  the  library.  I  heard  some  im- 
mensely interesting  conversation.  For  one  thing, 
I  overheard  Count  Teodoro's  opinion  of  the  two 
Americans  in  general  and  the  artist  in  partic- 
ular. He  suspected  you  from  the  very  start. 
The  rarity  of  visitors  in  Beritola,  the  inscribed 
panels  on  the  violin  and  Pietro's  flight  had  made 
him  nervous  and  apprehensive.  Niccolo's  mys- 
terious visitor  was  one  of  his  men,  and  when  to 
the  fact  that  you  were  an  American,  he  added 
the  fact  of  Pietro's  letter,  his  suspicion  grew. 
His  first  real  knowledge  of  our  plans,  however, 
came  that  first  night  we  met  him  at  the  Lam- 
bertis'.  He  followed  us  home,  and  hidden  in  the 
pines  by  the  cottage  porch  heard  our  whole  con- 
versation. He  is  especially  vindictive  about  that 
blow  you  gave  him  along  the  lake  shore.  He  as- 
serts that  in  spite  of  Beatrice's  refusal,  he  can 
in  the  end  force  her  to  marry  him.  I  also  be- 
came conversant  with  the  details  of  his  great 
ambition.  The  man  seems  fairly  obsessed  by  a 
desire  to  buy  up  all  the  land  in  Beritola  and 
make  one  estate  of  it. 


THE     SECKET     PASSAGE     309 

"  It  soon  became  evident  to  me  that  if  the 
Count  and  Giacomo  were  making  any  trips 
through  the  library  wall,  it  must  be  during  the 
day.  I  determined  not  to  wait  any  longer.  I 
would  climb  in  and  examine  the  wall  again 
without  further  delay.  There  was  always  the 
hope  that  I  might  stumble  upon  the  spring  and 
in  a  general  way  I  already  knew  its  location. 
So  one  fine  night  I  took  up  my  solitary  vigil  be- 
hind the  shelf  of  rock  with  your  revolver  and 
the  ghost-flute,  and  around  ten  o'clock  the 
mournful  strains  of  Filistrato  Lamberti's  flute 
floated  once  more  through  the  library  window. 

"  The  two  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  their  faces 
like  chalk. 

" '  My  God,  Giacomo,'  exclaimed  the  Count, 
trembling  violently,  t  there  it  is  again  and  they 
say  it  always  foretells  disaster! ' 

"  And  in  fear  and  horror  the  two  scoundrels 
stumbled  out  of  the  library.  I  played  at  inter- 
vals of  a  minute  or  so  to  keep  them  scared  and 
then  scrambled  in  through  the  window.  I  had 
my  revolver  in  readiness  in  case  they  returned. 
Keeping  an  eye  upon  the  door  through  which 
they  had  fled,  I  felt  along  the  wall  where  I  knew 
the  spring  to  be.  This  time  I  found  it.  It  was 
in  the  centre  of  a  carved  indentation  in  the  pan- 
elling. I  pressed  it  firmly  and  a  door  silently 
opened  away  from  me,  revealing  a  flight  of  stairs. 
It  wasn't  a  sliding  panel  as  I  had  suspected,  but 


310  TRAUMEREI 

a  hinged  door  quite  invisible  from  the  library. 
The  fact  that  it  opened  away  from  the  room  had 
misled  me.  After  convincing  myself  that  there 
was  a  spring  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  to 
let  me  out  again  and  that  I  quite  understood  the 
mechanism,  I  softly  closed  the  door  and  de- 
scended the  stairs." 

"  Suppose,"  suggested  Kirke,  "  that  you  had 
found  the  Count  and  Giacomo  in  the  library  upon 
your  return." 

"  In  that  case  I  was  prepared  to  give  them 
another  selection  upon  the  ghost  flute  from  be- 
hind the  panel  with  perhaps  a  sepulchral  groan 
or  two  thrown  in  for  luck.  Besides,  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  my  raven  locks  and  pirate  moustache, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  villainous  hump  and  the 
cloak,  would  have  scared  them  to  death. 

"  I  struck  a  match  and  descended  a  flight  of 
steps  that  seemed  interminable.  Presently  T 
found  myself  in  a  tunnel  at  the  entrance  of 
which  I  discovered  an  abundant  supply  of  lan- 
terns and  matches.  With  gratitude  in  my  heart 
for  the  Count's  thoughtful  preparations  for  a 
sightseer  such  as  myself,  I  appropriated  a  lan- 
tern and  plenty  of  matches,  lit  the  lantern, 
turned  it  down  until  it  gave  but  a  dim  light, 
and  walked,  well,  I  was  astounded  at  the  length 
of  the  thing !  I  walked  and  walked  and  sud- 
denly the  tunnel  changed  in  structure.  Up  to 
this  time  it  had  been  a  very  carefully  constructed 


THE     SECRET    PASSAGE    311 

passage  —  the  work  of  human  hands  —  but  now 
it  became  a  series  of  natural  caverns  strung  out 
one  after  the  other  in  irregular  procession.  I 
went  on  and  on,  and  presently  I  heard  voices 
ahead  of  me.  I  blew  out  the  lantern  and  crept 
on,  feeling  my  way  as  best  I  could.  I  turned 
abruptly  from  one  cavern  into  another  and  al- 
most ran  into  a  bunch  of  the  worst  looking  ras- 
cals I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life.  They  were  sit- 
ting around  a  fire  cooking  something  with  an 
abominable  odour  and  smoking  and  drinking. 
The  firelight  may  have  distorted  their  faces  and 
given  me  a  bad  impression,  but  I  must  confess 
they  gave  me  a  start.  By  the  light  of  the  fire,  I 
could  see  they  were  all  dark-skinned  and  dirty 
and  heavily  armed.  I  drew  back  noiselessly  in 
the  shadow  and  was  just  about  to  retrace  my 
foolhardy  footsteps  when  one  of  the  men 
growled : 

" '  Count  Teodoro  expects  us  to  have  that  big 
diamond  here  to-night,  Giuseppe;  what  will  you 
tell  him?' 

" '  The  truth,'  rumbled  the  man  Giuseppe,  in 
a  deep,  bass  voice.  '  He  knows  smuggling  is  no 
child's  play.  There's  a  revenue  cutter  prowling 
around  the  coast,'  he  paused,  apparently  listen- 
ing, and  back  of  me  I  heard  approaching  foot- 
steps. Well,  Kirke,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
a  berth  on  the  Celestial  Express!  It  was  Gia- 
como  and  the  Count  coming  for  the  big  dia- 


312  TRAUMEREI 

mond !  It  flashed  over  me  then  why  Giacorno 
had  slept  in  the  library  before  I  scared  him 
away.  He  had  been  guarding  the  secret  door. 
I  also  understood  Count  Teodoro's  peculiar  in- 
timacy with  his  butler.  He  was  really  one  of 
the  smugglers.  In  that  brief  space  of  time,  I 
came  to  understand  a  great  many  tilings.  The 
uneasiness  of  the  scientist  when  I  remarked  the 
newness  of  his  laboratory  equipment  was  not 
so  puzzling.  The  laboratory  was  a  bluff  to 
lend  colour  to  the  lie  that  he  had  discovered  the 
way  to  make  diamonds.  His  scientific  re- 
searches, too,  were  careful  preparation  for  what 
was  to  follow. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  choice  of  that  band  of  scoun- 
drels or  the  Count  and  Giacomo.  It  looked 
pretty  bad  for  me  either  way  and  at  the  time 
I  had  no  hope  of  getting  out  of  there  alive. 
Nevertheless  I  rapidly  reviewed  my  chances  for 
escape  and  they  were  mighty  few.  I  could  hear 
the  footsteps  behind  me  approaching  nearer  and 
nearer.  Serene  and  confident,  they  were  not  at- 
tempting to  deaden  the  sound  of  their  footsteps 
as  I  had  done  mine.  The  contact  of  their  heels 
with  the  passage  floor  rang  through  the  caverns 
apparently  close  at  hand,  but  I  suspected  that 
they  were  really  some  distance  away.  I  cer- 
tainly had  no  intention  of  standing  still  and 
placidly  awaiting  capture  and  the  exposure  of 
my  ghost  fraud;  the  Count,  with  his  lantern, 


THE     SECRET    PASSAGE    313 

would  have  to  pass  me  to  join  his  men,  and  he 
couldn't  fail  to  see  me  —  and  if  I  went  ahead, 
there  was  that  ugly  band  of  cut-throats. 

"  A  crazy  idea  shot  through  my  head  and  I 
immediately  put  it  into  execution.  I  was  plan- 
ning to  startle  that  gang  of  scoundrels  into  mo- 
mentary inactivity  and  I  did.  I  ruffled  my  long 
black  wig  into  wild  disorder  and  smudged  my 
face  with  lantern  black.  The  latter  obliterated 
the  last  trace  of  my  American  origin.  The  next 
instant  that  bunch  of  ruffians  was  treated  to  the 
unexpected  sight  of  a  demented  bandit  of  the 
last  century,  clad  in  antique  flowing  cape  and 
velvet  breeches,  with  a  dirty,  blackened  face,  a 
long,  tousled  mane  and  a  hump  on  his  back  who 
dashed  wildly  through  their  midst  yelling  like 
a  Comanche  Indian  in  a  war  dance.  For  one 
fleeting  instant  I  saw  their  thunderstruck  faces, 
and  desperate  as  I  was,  I  had  to  grin.  Then  the 
one  they  called  Giuseppe  fired  and  hit  me  in  the 
wrist." 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  Kirke,  "  I  thought  you 
tumbled  off  a  rock !  " 

"  I  did.  You'll  hear  of  that  later.  I  went  on 
through  that  series  of  caves,  finding  my  way  in 
the  dark  as  best  I  could  and  bumping  into  walls 
every  other  second,  the  gang  after  me.  That 
brief  thunderstruck  moment,  however,  had  given 
me  the  advantage.  By  the  time  they  had  re- 
covered their  senses  and  leaped  to  their  feet,  I 


314  TEAUMEREI 

was  some  yards  ahead.  I  had  no  idea  where  I 
was  going  and  cared  little,  providing  it  meant 
eventual  escape.  You  remember  I  was  always  a 
pretty  good  runner.  I  kept  well  ahead,  coming 
at  length  into  a  cave  that  apparently  had  no  out- 
let. I  decided  that  the  game  was  up  for 
sure  this  time!  I  ran  around  the  cave,  touch- 
ing the  rocky  wall  with  my  hands.  It  was 
all  perfectly  solid  with  no  hint  whatever  of  an 
aperture.  As  I  examined  one  rock,  however, 
it  suddenly  gave  as  if  it  were  being  rolled  back 
from  the  other  side  and  the  next  instant  I  felt 
a  rush  of  cool  night  air  coming  from  down  near 
the  floor.  I  dropped  upon  my  hands  and  knees 
and  collided  violently  with  a  man  crawling 
through  from  the  other  side.  I  seized  his  arms, 
dragged  him  through  pretty  forcibly  and  gave 
him  a  jolt  in  the  stomach  that  sent  him  down 
with  a  grunt.  Then  I  gratefully  followed  his  ex- 
ample of  crawling  through  the  aperture.  I 
heard  the  gang  fill  the  cave  back  of  me  yelling 
and  swearing,  but  I  went  flying  on,  thankful  for 
the  fact  that  I  was  once  more  in  the  open. 
There  had  been  a  little  shower  and  it  was  cloudy 
and  dark ;  so  dark,  indeed,  that  I  couldn't  see  an 
inch  before  me.  In  my  race  for  safety  I  tore 
straight  off  a  rock  into  the  atmosphere  and 
landed  with  a  splash  into  several  feet  of  water. 
Well,  Kirke  " —  Phil  threw  back  his  head  and 
shouted  with  laughter  — "  you  remember  I  had 


THE     SECKET     PASSAGE     315 

my  own  clothes  knotted  around  my  neck  un- 
der the  bandit  cloak?  The  strain  of  crawling 
through  the  rocky  aperture  and  the  sudden  con- 
tact with  the  water  was  too  much  for  them.  I 
felt  a  knot  slip  and  when  in  a  panic  I  grabbed  for 
the  precious  bundle,  it  was  gone !  The  waves  had 
swallowed  up  my  last  tie  to  modern  civilisation ! 
To  regain  it  was  impossible;  besides,  it  was  dan- 
gerous to  loiter  near  the  entrance  to  the  passage, 
so  I  swam  toward  the  glow  of  Vesuvius.  I  was 
in  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  although  I  did  not  know 
it  until  later.  I  swam  until  my  strength  gave 
out.  The  wound  on  my  wrist  was  insignificant, 
but  it  pained  considerably,  and  so  I  was  obliged 
to  land.  I  sat  on  the  beach  for  some  time  try- 
ing to  decide  what  under  the  canopy  I  was  go- 
ing to  do.  My  predicament  was  unique  to  say 
the  least.  I  was  stranded  in  the  most  melo- 
dramatic of*  bandit  rigs  and  likely  to  be  taken 
up  as  a  suspicious  character  if  I  showed  myself. 
Still,  my  wrist  was  in  bad  shape  and  I  was  pretty 
weak,  certainly  too  weak  to  walk  back  to  Beri- 
tola.  The  more  I  thought  of  my  general  ap- 
pearance, the  more  panic-stricken  I  became. 
With  or  without  the  bandit  cloak,  I  was  quite 
hopeless,  and  the  various  events  of  the  evening 
culminating  in  my  enforced  sea-bath  had  cer- 
tainly done  nothing  to  improve  an  already  vil- 
lainous outfit.  Finally  in  sheer  desperation  I 
stalked  forth  to  hunt  somebody  who  would 


316  T  E  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

shelter  me  for  the  night.  It  was  long  after  mid- 
night and  the  shore  was  deserted.  Presently  I 
banged  at  the  door  of  a  tiny  cottage  and  awaited 
developments.  A  masculine  head  appeared  at 
an  upstairs  window  and  inquired  what  I  wanted. 
I  told  him  his  fortune  was  made  if  he'd  shelter 
me  for  the  night.  He  came  down  and  proved  to 
be  a  very  decent  sort  of  chap,  an  olive  grower. 
He  struck  a  match  and  looked  me  over.  I  ex- 
plained at  some  detail  that  I'd  been  to  a  mas- 
querade in  Naples  and  rowing  home  had  fallen 
out  of  my  boat.  I  don't  think  he  heard  half  of 
my  elaborate  yarn,  for  fortunately  for  me  that 
blessed  dago  had  a  sense  of  humour  and  I 
thought  he'd  never  stop  laughing.  He  finally 
helped  me  bandage  up  my  wrist  and  I  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  night  at  his  house  on  the  sofa. 
He  lent  me  a  suit  in  the  morning  and  I  went  to 
a  neighbouring  doctor's  and  had  my  wrist 
bandaged  properly.  At  a  country  inn  near  by,  I 
telephoned  Tony's  brother,  the  hotel  clerk,  to 
hunt  up  Tony  and  ask  him  to  call  me  up.  Over 
the  wire  I  arranged  with  our  friend  of  the  ram- 
shackle cart  to  bring  me  a  complete  outfit  from 
a  Neapolitan  store  and  stop  for  me  on  his  way 
out  to  Beritola,  all  of  which  he  performed  very 
accurately,  although  I  must  say  it  staggered  me 
when  I  saw  that  plaid  suit.  Did  you  happen  to 
notice  the  socks  and  shirt,  Kirke?  I  did  my  best 
to  hide  them.  They  were  both  plaid  to  match 


THE     SECRET     PASSAGE    317 

the  suit.  It  was  Tony's  idea  of  a  stunning  out- 
fit, and  some  time  I'm  going  to  present  it  to  him. 
The  hat  I  put  under  the  seat  of  the  cart  and  rode 
home  bareheaded.  It  had  a  brim  nearly  a  foot 
wide. 

"As  to  the  geography  of  the  passage,  I  im- 
agine the  series  of  caverns  ends  directly  at  the 
Tyrrhenian  Sea  in  one  of  those  caves  that  honey- 
comb the  cliffs  along  the  shore.  The  entrance  is 
small  and  barricaded  with  a  rock  easily  pushed 
aside  if  one  knows  the  trick  and  goes  far  enough 
back  into  the  open  shore  cave.  It  explains 
Count  Teodoro's  mysterious  disappearance  that 
day  we  were  returning  from  Capri!  You  re- 
member I  mentioned  it  to  you?  There's  a  rude 
rock  stairway  shelving  down  to  the  sea  from  the 
cliffs.  I  imagine  there's  something  similar  at 
the  side  of  the  cliff  too.  His  temper  overcame 
him  at  the  sight  of  our  party  and  he  took  the 
quickest  way  out  of  our  sight.  He  merely  de- 
scended when  I  looked  away,  entered  the  shore 
cave,  went  to  the  rear  and  rolled  aside  the  rock. 
Once  he  left  the  cliff,  he  was  out  of  sight  and 
could  walk  straight  to  the  library  of  the  castle 
without  anyone  being  the  wiser." 

Kirke  lay  back  in  his  chair,  overwhelmed 
by  a  picture  of  his  friend  in  the  garb  of 
another  century  dashing  through  the  smugglers' 
cave  and  later  hunting  a  refuge  for  the 
night. 


318  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

"  The  gang  didn't  pursue  you  in  the  open?  "  he 
queried  presently. 

"  No.  I  imagine  they  dared  not  make  too 
much  of  a  row  on  the  shore  so  near  the  tunnel. 
To  continue  now  about  the  notes.  At  first  I 
didn't  know  just  what  use  to  make  of  the  knowl- 
edge I'd  gleaned.  When  I  first  heard  the 
Count's  and  Giacomo's  footsteps  re-echoing  be- 
hind me,  I  had  decided  to  inform  the  royal  au- 
thorities secretly  on  my  own  responsibility  if  I 
escaped  and  not  to  let  Count  Teodoro  suspect 
my  agency  until  he  was  captured.  The  thought 
of  Signore  Lamberti,  however,  flashed  over  me 
and  the  infinite  possibilities  of  the  exposure  if 
he  should  inform  the  government,  a  proceeding 
by  which  he  should  certainly  profit  if  there  were 
any  gratitude  whatever  in  royal  hearts.  In  this 
way  I  fancied  he  might  even  win  absolution 
from  that  abominable  tax!  At  first  I  deter- 
mined to  tell  him  the  whole  story.  It  speedily 
occurred  to  me,  however,  that  with  his  con- 
scientious, high-strung  temperament,  he'd  flatly 
refuse  to  take  credit  for  a  discovery  he  hadn't 
made. 

"  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  logical 
became  the  idea  of  Signore  Lamberti  himself 
warning  the  government.  As  the  original 
owner  of  the  castle,  he  doubtless  knew  of  its  pe- 
culiar structure  and  could  lead  the  authorities 
straight  to  the  point  on  the  coast  where  the 


passage  ends,  the  only  practicable  way  for  them 
to  enter  it.  Personally  I'd  never  be  able  to  find 
the  shore  entrance.  And  then,  out  of  the  clouds 
came  the  inspiration  of  those  notes  sent  incog- 
nito, the  only  plausible  method  to  my  mind  of 
stating  the  facts  to  Signore  Lambert!  and  forc- 
ing him  to  warn  the  government.  I  waited  un- 
til the  august  commissioners  had  visited  Count 
Teodoro.  That  trip  gave  them  the  opportunity 
to  notice  the  range  of  hills  which  extends  from 
the  coast  to  the  castle  window.  It  would  help 
verify  the  suggestion  of  a  secret  passage  when  at 
last  it  should  arrive  in  writing.  Besides,  the 
nearer  the  government  comes  to  being  hood- 
winked by  the  rascal,  the  more  dramatic  will  be 
the  revelation.  So  I  started  my  system  of  notes. 
In  the  old  fellow's  present  dreamy  state,  I  knew 
I  would  have  to  arouse  and  stimulate  his  inter- 
est little  by  little  or  I  should  not  be  able  to  hold 
it  at  all.  Consequently  each  note  of  the  series 
suggested  a  little  more  than  its  predecessor  and 
made  him  eager  for  the  next.  How  well  it  has 
worked,  you  probably  know  better  than  I. 
Kirke,"  he  finished  soberly,  "  you  won't  tell  him 
the  source  of  those  notes?  As  you  can  see  for 
yourself,  he  would  insist  upon  my  availing  my- 
self of  the  information." 

Kirke  silently  held  out  his  hand.  This 
summer  in  Beritola  had  taught  him  a  better 
understanding  of  his  friend  than  all  the 


320  TRAUMEREI 

years  of  idle  companionship  that  lay  behind 
them. 

"  Signore  Lambert!  really  has  no  positive, 
first-hand  knowledge  of  Count  Teodoro's  ras- 
cality," suggested  Kirke  presently.  "  Do  you 
think  —» 

"  I  had  thought  of  that,"  interrupted  Phil. 
"  He  can,  however,  describe  the  secret  passage 
and  suggest  to  the  royal  authorities  that  they  in- 
vestigate the  matter.  If  they  do  some  detective 
work,  they'll  soon  find  out  enough  to  verify  their 
worst  suspicions  and  the  result  will  be  just  the 
same  as  if  I  had  tendered  all  my  information  as 
an  eye  witness.  Wait  —  as  the  kid  said  when  he 
coyly  dropped  the  match  into  the  keg  of  gun- 
powder —  I  shouldn't  be  'sprised  if  sumthin' 
happened ! " 


IN   NICCOLO'S  HUT 

PHIL,  loitering  by  the  Ciapelletto  cottage 
late  in  the  evening,  paused  abruptly  at  the 
sound  of  a  sharp  exclamation  at  one  of  the  up- 
stairs windows. 

" Madre! "  cried  Lauretta  wildly,  "it  cannot 
be !  Here?  —  Mother  of  God !  " 

"  Hush ! "  came  Marietta's  warning  tones, 
"  he  is  ill  and  we  are  to  go  to  him  at  once.  Nic- 
colo  says  that  none  must  know." 

The  voices  dropped  to  an  excited  whisper. 
Alert  and  suspicious,  Phil  stepped  into  the  shad- 
ows at  the  side  of  the  cottage  and  waited.  An 
instant  later  the  two  women  emerged  and  hur- 
ried silently  away.  Convinced  of  their  desti- 
nation, the  American  followed.  As  he  had  sus- 
pected, they  climbed  the  trail  to  the  Villa  Spa 
Gett  and  vanished  in  the  pines  above  it.  With  a 
wild  thrill  of  prescience,  he  waited  until  they 
were  far  up  the  mountain ;  then  he,  too,  climbed 
to  the  summit.  Outside  the  rude  hut  where 
Mccolo  lived  he  paused  and  listened.  There  was 
an  eager  hum  of  voices  within  —  subdued  and 
indistinct.  Spears  of  light  flashed  through  the 

321 


322  TBAUMEREI 

crevices  in  the  rough  walls,  and  through  them  the 
American  tried  in  vain  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
room  within.  Balked  in  his  purpose,  he  sought 
the  window  at  the  side,  a  square  patch  of  yellow 
light  which  cast  a  luminous  shadow  upon  the 
ground  outside,  but  here,  too,  the  room  was 
veiled  from  sight  by  a  drawn  shade,  and  with  a 
shrug  of  resolution,  Phil  stepped  to  the  door  and 
entered. 

Niecolo  rose,  a  savage  light  in  his  eyes,  and 
seated  himself  again  with  an  odd  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  as  he  recognised  the  intruder.  Mari- 
etta, for  the  first  time  in  her  tense,  excitable  life, 
seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  speech,  but 
there  was  a  great  fear  in  her  eyes  and  she 
trembled  violently.  In  a  silence  so  intense  that 
the  night  sounds  of  the  mountain  insects  grew 
into  a  raucous  commotion,  the  three  stared  at 
each  other  and  finally  turned  their  eyes  of  one 
accord  to  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Lauretta 
was  on  her  knees  at  the  side  of  a  rude  couch, 
and  by  the  light  in  her  eyes  Phil  guessed  the 
identity  of  the  lad  whose  white  face  and  burning 
eyes  looked  so  ghost-like  against  the  pillow. 
Pietro  Masetto  lay  there,  ill  with  a  fever,  his 
rambling  sentences  but  the  prelude  of  the  de- 
lirium that  was  to  follow.  Raising  himself 
upon  his  elbow,  he  cried  aloud  at  the  sight  of  the 
American : 

"  It  is  not  Count  Teodoro?  "  he  said  hoarsely. 


IN    NICCOLO'S     HUT          323 

"  Mother  of  God !  Tell  me  it  is  not  Count  Teo- 
doro ! " 

"  It  is  not  Count  Teodoro,  Pietro,"  said  Nic- 
colo  soothingly.  "  It  is  — "  but  Lauretta  had 
wheeled  in  swift  alarm  and  in  passionate  aban- 
don she  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  before  the 
American. 

"  Eccellenza,"  she  panted  piteously,  "  you 
will  not  betray  Pietro?  He  is  ill  unto  death 
with  fever.  To-night  he  came  secretly  over  the 
hills  from  Naples  faint  and  tired  and  hungry  — " 
her  voice  broke  in  a  great  sob  — "  and  Niccolo 
has  taken  him  in."  Her  wonderful,  red-brown 
eyes,  misty  with  tears  and  full  of  the  prayer  that 
was  surging  through  her  body,  sought  the 
American's  face  and  rested  upon  it  in  an  agony 
of  pleading.  "  Eccellenga,  Count  Teodoro 
would  have  him  put  in  the  great  prison,  or, 
worse,  he  might  kill  him." 

But  Phil  leaned  over  and  gently  raised  the  girl 
from  the  floor. 

"  Lauretta,"  he  said  kindly,  "  I  followed  you 
to-night  because  I,  too,  am  his  friend.  I  have 
more  of  an  interest  in  the  lad  than  any  of  you 
guess  and  I  alone  can  straighten  out  the  queer 
tangle  of  his  life.  See,"  he  whimsically  crossed 
the  room  and  laid  his  hand  upon  a  tattered 
Bible  lying  on  a  stand  near  the  bed,  "  see,  I 
swear  by  this  that  no  one  shall  hear  from  me  of 
Pietro's  presence  in  Beritola." 


324  TEAUMEREI 

Marietta  passionately  kissed  his  hand,  and  the 
look  of  gratitude  in  Lauretta's  eyes  seemed  that 
of  a  tired  child  who  had  found  unexpected  rest. 

"  Eccellenza,  was  always  good ! "  she  said 
simply. 

Quietly  Phil  leaned  over  the  feverish  lad  upon 
the  couch.  His  great  eyes,  deep-sunken  and 
burning  fiercely  with  the  light  of  fever,  roved 
restlessly  about  the  room,  ever  returning  in  mo- 
mentary content  to  Lauretta.  For  an  instant  a 
question  hovered  upon  the  American's  lips,  but 
he  silently  repressed  it.  Pietro  Masetto  was 
fast  sinking  into  incoherent  delirium  and  with 
a  great  pity  in  his  heart  for  the  boy  whose 
misery  had  been  the  result  of  an  unscrupulous 
nobleman's  scheming,  he  turned  and  left  the  hut, 
signalling  Niccolo  to  follow. 

"  Niccolo,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  the  boy  must 
have  everything  he  needs  and  I  will  pay  for  it. 
Much  depends  upon  his  recovery.  It  is  good  of 
you  to  take  him  in  and  hide  him." 

Niccolo  slowly  removed  his  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  "Tis  but  a  poor  return,"  he  said,  "  that  I  can 
give  the  lad  for  telling  that  accursed  stranger 
that  he  was  in  America.  It  has  harmed  him 
none,  but  Niccolo,  the  mountain  pecorajo,  does 
but  few  things  of  that  sort.  Besides,  I  talked 
much  against  him  to  taunt  Marietta,  and  now 
that  she  has  been  so  good  and  friendly  —  and, 
Eccellenza,  there  are  many  worse  in  Beritola 


IN    NICCOLO'S     HUT          325 

than  Marietta  — 'tis  but  a  slight  return  I  can  give 
her,  too,  for  the  favours  she  heaped  upon  me 
when  she  did  but  scratch  my  arm  with  a  stiletto. 
Corpo!  I  had  drunk  too  much  wine  with  Carlo, 
and  I  needed  it." 

"  A  doctor?  "  questioned  Phil  anxiously. 

"  There  is  one  in  the  valley  who  treats  us  all," 
said  Niccolo.  "  I  will  go  with  you  and  summon 
him."  And  with  a  whispered  word  to  Marietta 
who  had  come  to  the  door  behind  him,  he  turned 
and  followed  the  American  down  the  mountain. 

From  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  Phil  watched 
Niccolo  and  the  village  doctor  cautiously  climb 
to  the  mountain  hut.  Later  he  intercepted  the 
physician  on  his  homeward  trip. 

"  It  is  not  serious,"  averred  the  little  man, 
"but  it  is  very  slow  and  very  weakening.  He 
has  been  working  in  those  accursed  sulphur 
mines  in  Sicily  and  it  has  well-nigh  killed  him, 
along  with  all  the  worry  and  trouble  that  ap- 
pears to  be  on  his  mind.  It  will  be  many  days 
before  he  will  know  his  friends,  for  he  is  already 
delirious,"  and  he  gratefully  pocketed  the  money 
which  the  American  had  thrust  into  his  hand, 
and  proceeded  down  the  trail,  scratching  his 
head  in  bewilderment  at  the  size  of  the  fee.  It 
was  a  material  endorsement  of  the  wild  tales 
in  the  valley  concerning  the  huge  coffers  of  gold 
which  these  mad  Americans  had  brought  with 
them! 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TWO  VISITORS 

TN  spite  of  the  uncertainty  attending  the 
•••  eventual  fate  of  the  villa  at  Count  Teodoro's 
hands  and  the  outcome  of  Signore  Lamberti's 
warning  to  the  government,  Kirke  found  the 
days  that  followed  happy  and  tranquil.  In  his 
absorption,  however,  he  failed  to  notice  the 
abrupt  cessation  of  letters  from  Mu'rren  and  the 
strange  fact  that  Phil  had  once  more  begun  his 
nightly  disappearances. 

Up  in  Niccolo's  hut  on  the  mountain,  the 
bagpipe  played  no  more  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light. Pietro  still  lay  there  delirious,  bab- 
bling of  stolen  violins,  of  Count  Teodoro,  of 
Signore  Lamberti,  of  the  American  across  the 
sea  who  had  purchased  the  violin,  of  Lauretta 
and  a  mountain  cottage  covered  with  roses,  of 
the  Sicilian  sulphur  mines  and  a  Neapolitan 
bank  —  a  rambling  story  whose  meaning  Phil 
tried  in  vain  to  gather.  Each  night  he  crept  up 
the  mountain  bearing  wines  and  tempting  deli- 
cacies purchased  during  his  trips  to  Naples  in 
the  Panhard  with  the  old  Signorina,  and  sat  by 
Pietro's  bed  alert  for  some  explanation  of  the 
wild  words  that  constantly  hovered  on  the  boy's 

326 


TWO      VISITORS  327 

lips  as  he  fought  the  fever.  Marietta  and  Laur- 
etta shared  his  watch,  according  the  silent  Ameri- 
can a  blind  worship  and  trust  that  he  found  a 
little  embarrassing.  Were  not  all  these  deli- 
cacies and  the  careful  arrangements  in  the  hut 
for  Pietro's  comfort  proof  of  Eccellenza's  great- 
hearted generosity?  Had  he  not  brought  from 
Naples  one  night  in  his  strange  carriage  that 
needed  neither  horse  nor  mule,  a  great  Neapoli- 
tan physician  to  verify  the  fat  little  village  doc- 
tor's diagnosis?  Since  the  great  man's  visit, 
Pietro  had  had  intermittent  spells  of  conscious- 
ness when  he  lay  silent  and  apathetic,  and  Mari- 
etta firmly  believed  that  he  could  attribute  these 
to  the  influence  of  the  American  Signore. 

Into  the  tangled  web  that  the  great  spider  Fate 
had  spread  over  the  little  valley,  stretching  its 
meshes  tighter  and  tighter  as  the  days  went  by, 
presently  came  two  others.  They  were  driven 
over  the  hills  from  Naples  by  Tony,  who  proudly 
thumped  the  new  bottom  of  his  cart  (a  necessity 
since  the  fateful  sightseeing  trip)  from  time  to 
time  with  the  butt  end  of  his  whip,  eyeing  his 
feminine  passengers  in  whom  he  was  frankly  in- 
terested, to  see  if  they  were  properly  impressed 
by  its  astonishing  stability.  Of  the  older 
woman's  air  of  distinction  the  driver  felt  con- 
siderable awe;  the  dimples  and  smiles  of  the 
younger  —  a  fair-haired  girl  of  decided  beauty 
—  he  had,  however,  found  irresistible  and 


328  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

watched  her  colour  come  and  go,  as  she  laughed 
at  his  antics,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 
Pausing  at  the  crest  of  the  hillroad,  Tony  pointed 
below  where  the  valley  lay  in  the  deepening 
glow  of  the  morning  sunlight,  well  content  with 
the  astonishment  of  his  two  passengers. 

"  Mother,"  cried  the  girl,  "  it  is  wonderful ! 
See,  there  is  the  lake  and  the  chapel,  the  villa 
with  the  hedge  of  red  geraniums,  and  the 
castle ! " 

Tony  flashed  his  handsome  teeth  in  delight, 
readjusted  his  scarlet  tie,  and  pointing  his  whip 
straight  ahead  gave  a  wild  call  to  his  horses  and 
tore  down  the  steep  mountain  road,  raising  a 
cloud  of  dust  that  settled  thick  upon  them,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  the  elder  woman  whose  face  be- 
trayed a  constant  fear  of  annihilation. 

Tony  presently  collected  a  bundle  of  papers 
from  which  the  string  had  been  broken  by  the 
terrific  bumping  of  the  cart  and  clattered  up  a 
winding  mountain  trail  at  the  end  of  the  valley 
to  the  door  of  a  cottage  perched  dizzily  among 
the  pines.  He  alighted  with  an  exuberant  roar 
that  made  the  older  woman  jump. 

Kirke  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  came  to  a 
startled  halt.  Tony  had  gallantly  assisted  his 
passengers  to  alight,  and  to  his  great  astonish- 
ment the  American  found  himself  confronting 
two  smiling  faces  which  but  an  instant  ago  he 
had  believed  to  be  far  away  in  Miirren. 


TWO     VISITORS  329 

"Mother  would  come,  Kirke,"  said  Margaret 
Bentley,  laughing,  "  I  simply  could  not  persuade 
her  otherwise.  She's  developed  a  vein  of  stub- 
borness  that  would  do  credit  to  Grandfather 
Bentley  himself ! " 

Kirke  calmly  finished  his  lunch  and  pushed 
back  his  chair. 

"  Mother  and  I  are  going  to  talk,"  he  said 
pointedly.  "  Phil,  this  will  be  an  excellent  op- 
portunity for  you  to  show  Margaret  the  sights 
of  the  valley !  " 

Two  pairs  of  eyes  flashed  fire  in  his  direction, 
but  the  offender  was  critically  inspecting  his 
cuff  and  seemed  quite  unaware  of  a  certain  com- 
motion around  the  table.  There  was  no  help  for 
it.  Phil  rose.  Margaret,  with  an  imploring  look 
at  the  inexorable  face  of  her  brother,  joined  him 
and  in  silence  the  two  departed. 

But  Margaret  Bentley  was  at  all  times  a 
thoroughbred  and  there  was  no  hint  of  constraint 
in  her  manner  as  they  descended  the  trail.  At 
the  foot  of  the  castle  hill  she  paused.  The  mass 
of  stone  stretched  grimly  along  the  ridge  seemed 
to  fascinate  her  and  she  grew  very  thoughtful. 

"  Mr.  Ainsworth,"  she  said  pleasantly,  voic- 
ing the  presentiment  in  her  mind,  "  Kirke  wrote 
me  about  your  sweetheart,  the  Signorina  Emilia 
Lambert!  Does  she  live  up  there  in  the 
castle?  " 


330  TRAUMEREI 

She  was  gazing  up  at  the  grey  walls  and  failed 
to  see  her  companion's  puzzled  look  or  the  flash 
of  instant  comprehension  that  followed.  In 
spite  of  her  careful  control  there  had  been  a  tone 
in  her  voice  that  pleased  Mr.  Ainsworth  ex- 
ceedingly. 

"  No,"  he  said  gravely,  "  she  lives  in  the  villa 
with  the  hedge  of  red  geraniums  about  it.  I'd 
like  you  to  know  her.  She's  the  daintiest  little 
lady  that  God  ever  made.  We're  going  there 
now  to  see  her !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  cried  Margaret  wildly, 
thrown  off  her  guard  by  the  abrupt  announce- 
ment, almost  as  brutal  in  its  way  as  Kirke's  sud- 
den suggestion  at  luncheon;  then  biting  her  lips 
with  an  angry  shame  in  her  heart  she  quietly 
added,  "  Of  course!  Let  us  go  by  all  means." 

Phil  discreetly  turned  his  head  and  smiled. 
Margaret  Bentley's  agitation  had  revealed  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  cared  to  own. 

The  villa  was  quiet;  the  tinkle  of  the  foun- 
tain clearly  audible  in  the  afternoon  hush.  Phil 
well  knew  where  they  would  find  the  old  Sig- 
norina.  She  spent  most  of  her  afternoons  in  the 
old  rose-garden,  dozing  and  reading,  as  the  mood 
seized  her.  With  his  heart  throbbing  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  magnificent  airiness  of  his 
manner,  Phil  led  the  girl  through  the  shrubbery 
at  the  side,  past  the  statues  and  the  marble 
fountain  to  the  rose-garden  beyond. 


TWO     VISITORS  331 

"Isn't  —  isn't  this  perhaps  a  little  uncere- 
monious?" she  protested,  and  the  corners  of 
Phil's  mouth  twitched  uneasily. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  assented,  "  but  then  I'm  prac- 
tically one  of  the  family !  "  a  statement  as  truth- 
ful in  point  of  fact  as  it  was  suggestive  in  intent. 

The  rose-garden  was  aglow  with  the  last  roses 
of  the  year,  a  choice  variety  blooming  abundantly 
each  month  of  the  summer.  Phil  had  wondered 
at  the  constant  parade  of  blossoms  as  the  summer 
advanced,  little  dreaming  that  it  was  the  result  of 
the  old  Signorina's  careful  study  of  horticulture. 
Aunt  Emilia  sat  by  a  nodding  rose-bush  asleep  in 
her  chair,  her  small,  white  hands  half  hidden  in 
the  silken  folds  of  her  black  gown,  her  hair  and 
kerchief  fluttering  drowsily  in  the  wind.  A  page 
of  an  open  book  that  had  slipped  from  her  lap 
to  the  ground  turned  over  and  back  as  if  pro- 
pelled by  the  hand  of  an  unseen  reader.  Mar- 
garet's eyes  softened  at  the  sight  of  the  tranquil 
old  dreamer  soothed  by  a  silent  lullaby  of  breeze 
and  blossom. 

"  What  a  dear,  dear  old  lady !  "  she  said  gently. 

Phil  bent  over  the  sleeper  with  a  smile. 

"  Wake  up,  Aunt  Emilia,  wake  up !  "  he  called 
gaily.  "  I've  brought  you  a  visitor." 

The  old  lady  stirred  and  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Caro  mio,"  she  exclaimed,  smiling.  "  You 
startled  me !  "  She  paused,  her  eyes  resting  upon 
Margaret  in  gentle  inquiry.  Reverently  Phil 


332  TRAUMEREI 

raised  her  wrinkled  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said  gently,  "  this  is  my  sweet- 
heart—  quite  the  dearest  old  lady  in  all  the 
world ! " 

"  You  are  the  Signorina  Emilia !  "  cried  Mar- 
garet, colouring.  "  Oh,  Phil,  I  didn't  know!  " 

"  And  you  are  Margaret ! "  exclaimed  the  old 
lady  delightedly  in  English,  "  Phil  has  told  me  all 
about  you !  "  With  a  sob  Margaret  slipped  to  her 
knees,  burying  her  face  in  the  folds  of  the  old 
Signorina's  gown.  "  There,  there,  dearie,"  went 
on  Aunt  Emilia,  patting  the  girl's  fair  hair  with 
a  gentle  hand,  "  don't  cry !  Tell  me  all  about 
it ! "  and  nodding  eagerly  she  heard  the  story  of 
the  quarrel,  of  Kirke's  thoughtless  postscript  and 
his  omission  of  her  age. 

"  Margaret ! "  Phil  laid  his  hand  gently  upon 
the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  thought,"  but  Phil  caught 
her  up  in  his  arms  with  a  happy  laugh. 

"  God  bless  Kirke !  "  was  all  he  said. 

Back  at  the  Villa  Spa  Gett  Kirke  had  been 
quite  frank.  There  had  been  no  reservations  in 
the  story  he  quietly  laid  before  his  mother.  The 
purchase  of  the  Stradivarius,  its  strange  history, 
the  story  of  the  Lambertis,  of  Count  Teodoro,  of 
Phil's  generous  aid,  of  Lauretta  and  Pietro,  Mari- 
etta and  Niccolo,  of  his  picture  painted  to  prove 
his  creative  equality  (at  which  the  mother  had 


TWO      VISITORS  333 

bridled),  the  unwinding  of  the  silver  thread  had 
fascinated  her  until  it  led  her  son  to  Beatrice. 
His  frank  statement  of  his  love  for  the  daughter 
of  Signore  Lamberti  had  been  received  with 
strong  disapproval,  the  way  of  mothers  all  over 
the  world. 

"  You  are  so  impulsive,  Kirke ! "  sighed  his 
mother.  "  I  should  so  much  more  have  preferred 
an  American  girl,"  and  yielding  at  length  to  his 
urgent  persuasion  she  reluctantly  accompanied 
him  to  the  Lamberti  villa. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought  as  Signore  Lamberti 
ushered  them  through  the  villa  to  the  rose-garden 
at  the  rear,  "  it's  just  like  a  dream.  Who  ever 
thought  that  a  violin  could  make  all  this  trou- 
ble? " 

Her  face  unconsciously  betrayed  her  inward 
trepidation.  Phil,  covertly  watching  her,  saw 
that  the  dear  lady  already  knew  the  history  of 
their  eventful  summer  and  was  trying  hard  to  ad- 
just herself  to  a  condition  of  affairs  quite  unsus- 
pected. 

The  mother's  eyes  rested  upon  Beatrice  in  si- 
lent appraisement. 

"  She's  very  beautiful  and  very  proud,"  she  de- 
cided wistfully.  "  There's  pride  in  all  three  of 
these  Lamberti  faces.  I  wish,  oh,  I  do  wish  I 
knew  what  I  think  about  it  all,"  and  Mrs.  Bent- 
ley  brushed  her  forehead  in  genuine  distress. 

Gradually,   however,   to  her   secret  astonish- 


334  TRAUMEREI 

ment,  she  found  her  troubled  thoughts  succumb- 
ing to  the  charm  of  the  Lambert!  hospitality. 
The  feeling  of  unrest  slipped  away  and  the 
mother  was  shocked  at  her  growing  tranquillity. 
When  the  supper  hour  arrived  and  a  table  was 
brought  out  to  the  old  rose-garden  and  set  with 
the  quaint  family  silver  and  china,  Mrs.  Bentley 
found  herself  silently  approving  everything  about 
her.  Alarmed  by  her  own  mental  revolution  she 
glanced  at  Margaret  and  found  a  face  radiant 
with  enjoyment.  The  old  Signorina  smilingly 
arranged  a  bowl  of  roses  on  the  table,  and  as 
Signore  Lamberti  grandly  bowed  her  to  her 
chair,  the  mother  with  a  sigh  surrendered  her- 
self to  the  witchery  of  her  Italian  surroundings. 
The  quiet  courtesy  of  this  handsome  Italian,  the 
dear  old  sister  with  her  snowy  hair  and  dark 
eyes,  her  black  gown  and  white  lace  kerchief 
(what  a  wonderful  resemblance  between  the  two 
and  what  a  host  of  delightful  reminiscences  the 
old  Signorina  had  told  in  her  soft,  pretty  voice !) ; 
the  old  silver  and  china;  this  quiet  rose-garden 
with  the  rustic  arbour  of  purple  grapes  (what  a 
sense  of  the  artistic  these  Italians  displayed  in 
everything!) ;  the  girl  Lauretta  (Mrs.  Bentley 
had  gasped  in  amazement  when  her  eyes  first  fell 
upon  the  beautiful  peasant  girl  in  her  bizarre 
costume  of  red  and  yellow) ,  and  —  and  Beatrice ! 
Mrs.  Bentley's  eyes  returned  to  the  girl's  face  for 
the  hundredth  time. 


TWO      VISITORS  335 

"  Dear  me,"  sighed  the  mother,  "  I  guess  Kirke 
is  right.  I'm  afraid  I  should  have  fallen  in  love 
with  her  myself,  but  I  do  wish  she  were  an 
American ! " 

The  night  was  aglitter  with  stars  when  at 
last  the  Americans  rose  to  go. 

"  I  have  had  a  communication  from  the  gov- 
ernment to-day,"  said  Signore  Lamberti  to  Kirke 
in  a  low  voice.  "  It  contains  a  request  to  lead 
their  officers  to  the  coast  entrance  of  the  secret 
passage." 

"  You  will  go?  "  questioned  Kirke  eagerly. 

"  Yes.  In  the  morning.  I  shall  go  to  Napoli 
for  a  few  days,  though  I  shall  of  course  take  care 
to  spread  the  impression  that  I  have  gone  on  a 
visit  for  the  peasants'  gossip.  The  authorities 
seem  grateful  for  the  information,"  he  added 
wistfully. 

"  They  should  be ! "  averred  Kirke  heartily. 
"  You  have  done  them  an  invaluable  service." 

The  Italian  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said  thoughtfully  as  Kirke  held  out 
his  hand  in  farewell,  "  the  mysterious  author  of 
those  notes  is  the  real  benefactor !  " 

"  Well,  Mother? "  The  quiet  voice  bore  a 
question  that  the  mother  had  dreaded.  She 
looked  off  to  the  South  at  the  glare  of  the  great 
volcano;  ahead  at  Margaret  and  Phil,  effacing 
the  last  of  the  summer's  misunderstanding,  and 


336  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

back  again  to  Kirke,  his  dark  face  aligbt  with 
expectation.  A  great  wave  of  loneliness  swept 
over  ber.  Margaret  and  Kirke  both!  The 
hand  she  laid  upon  her  son's  arm  trembled  a 
little. 

"  Kirke,"  she  said  with  a  little  sob,  "  she's  very 
lovely.  I  —  I  hope  you  may  win  her !  " 

Out  on  the  porch  of  the  mountain  cottage  Mar- 
garet, too,  heard  the  story  of  the  summer  and 
went  to  bed  in  a  glow  of  excitement.  Kirke  had 
given  up  his  room  and  gone  in  with  Phil,  and  the 
girl  lay  quiet  beside  her  mother  rehearsing  the 
romantic  story  of  Camillo  Lamberti's  violin. 
Mrs.  Bentley,  too,  was  wakeful,  listening  to  the 
sounds  of  the  night-birds  in  the  pines  and  the 
throaty  plaint  of  the  treetoads.  Unless  Kirke 
objected,  she,  too,  would  stay  to  see  this  little 
drama  played  out  to  the  end,  when  the  Count 
should  come  to  his  final  reckoning  and  Kirke 
restore  the  violin  to  Signore  Lamberti. 

Margaret  stirred  uneasily  and  sat  up. 

"  Mother,"  she  whispered  eagerly,  "  couldn't 
we  stay?  I  never  was  so  interested  before  in 
my  life !  " 

"  My  dear,"  confessed  her  mother  deprecat- 
ingly,  "  wild  horses  couldn't  drag  me  away  if 
Kirke  will  let  us  stay !  " 


CHAPTER  XXX 

COUNT  TEODOEO'S  FINAL  BECKONING 

OIGNORE  LAMBERTI  went  to  Naples  the 
^  following  morning.  He  left  openly,  riding 
away  witk  Tony,  a  great  old-fashioned  bag  in  his 
hand  to  foster  the  general  impression  that  he  had 
gone  on  a  visit.  He  was  apparently  quite  calm, 
but  excitement  lent  a  spring  to  his  step  and  an 
added  fire  to  his  eye.  His  patriotism,  too  broad 
to  harbour  malice,  had  flamed  up  anew  at  this 
prospect  of  rendering  his  beloved  Italy  a  service. 
He  was  absent  four  days,  during  which  Mrs. 
Bentley  and  Margaret  revelled  in  the  quiet  charm 
of  the  Italian  valley.  *  Nature  was  flaunting  her 
royal  banner  of  purple  grapes  and  late  figs;  a 
golden  haze,  harbinger  of  the  autumn,  lay  over 
the  land  by  day,  and  at  night  a  mist  of  violet 
encircled  the  moon.  The  sun  was  as  prodigal  of 
his  burning  rays  in  September  as  he  had  been 
in  August,  but  at  twilight  a  delightful  coolness 
crept  out  from  the  mountain  pines  and  fanned 
the  heated  earth.  !  The  Villa  Spa  Gett  was  daily 
deserted  for  the  old  rose-garden  at  the  Lambertis' 
where  the  old  Signorina  delighted  to  open  her 
"  memory  chest "  for  Margaret  as  she  had  done 
for  Phil.  Aunt  Emilia  alone,  however,  of  all 

837 


338 

the  little  participants  in  the  drama  playing  itself 
out  in  the  waning  summer  was  tranquil  and  con- 
tent. She  knew  nothing  of  the  Count's  smug- 
gling or  of  the  mysterious  series  of  notes,  and 
where  the  minds  of  the  others  were  heavily 
freighted  with  conjecture,  she  gave  herself  up  to 
the  delight  of  the  golden  summer. 

Signore  Lamberti  returned  as  unpretentiously 
as  he  had  left.  When  the  two  Americans  joined 
him  at  the  villa,  he  was  alive  with  a  boyish  eager- 
ness to  tell  the  story  of  his  four  days  in  Napoli. 
Much  to  Kirke's  delight,  he  courteously  re- 
counted the  history  of  the  mysterious  slips  of 
paper,  as  an  explanatory  preamble,  to  Phil,  who 
maintained  the  face  of  a  stoic. 

"  I  have  already  told  Beatrice  and  Emilia,"  he 
added.  "  It  seemed  best  in  the  light  of  what  the 
day  may  bring  forth.  And  of  course,  Signori, 
it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  this  narration 
of  mine  is  in  absolute  confidence  for  a  very  evi- 
dent reason  as  you  will  note  during  its  progress. 
You  will  remember  I  went  to  Napoli  on  Tuesday. 
Tuesday  evening  a  secret  service  man  and  myself 
boarded  a  revenue  cutter  lying  in  the  bay  and 
.proceeded  up  the  northern  coast  to  a  point  I  in- 
dicated, where  a  boat  was  lowered  and  we  landed 
in  the  general  locality  of  the  coast  entrance  to 
the  passage.  We  had  to  conduct  our  investiga- 
tions with  the  utmost  care,  for,  had  we  been  dis- 
covered, our  lives  would  undoubtedly  have  paid 


FINAL    RECKONING         339 

the  forfeit.  We  were  both  equipped  with  shrill 
whistles  to  summon  the  revenue  cutter  if  need 
be,  and  we  were  heavily  armed.  The  coast  at 
this  point  is  wild  and  rocky  and  we  soon  dis- 
covered a  great  similarity  in  the  cliffs  and  caves 
along  the  water.  To  my  great  dismay  and 
humiliation,  I  was  unable  to  locate  the  entrance 
to  the  passage  and  we  were  obliged  to  return  to 
Napoli.  I  have  explained  to  you,  Signore  Bent- 
ley,  that  the  series  of  caverns  which  complete 
the  passage,  open  into  a  deep  shore  cave  roofed 
by  a  bluff  above  the  water.  This  by  a  series  of 
rude  projections  shelves  down  to  the  sea  on  one 
side  and  to  the  cave  beneath  on  the  other.  Thus 
one  may  enter  by  land  or  sea.  Rowing  into  one 
of  the  caves  that  honeycomb  the  bluff,  you  find  a 
ledge  of  rock  at  the  side  above  the  level  of  the 
water.  This  leads  far  back  through  impenetra- 
ble gloom  to  the  entrance  blocked  by  a  rock,  all 
in  such  heavy  darkness  even  in  daytime  that  a 
stranger  would  find  it  impossible  to  locate.  The 
smugglers,  I  imagine,  row  in  one  by  one  from 
the  sea  and  land  secretly  upon  the  ledge  beneath 
the  bluff. 

"We  searched  diligently  again  the  following 
night  and  eventually  found  both  the  shore  cave 
and  the  entrance  rock.  We  returned  to  the 
cutter  and  later  accompanied  by  eight  armed  men 
entered  the  passage,  stationed  our  men  near 
the  entrance,  and  the  secret  service  man  and 


340  TBAUMEEEI 

myself  went  on  ahead  to  explore  the  tunnel. 
Equipped  with  electric  torches  which  one 
could  snap  off  or  on  at  will,  we  traversed 
the  entire  length  of  the  passage  to  the  foot  of 
the  flight  of  stairs  which  leads  up  to  a  secret 
door  in  the  castle  library  and  found  it  silent  and 
deserted.  The  secret  service  man  was  frankly 
astounded  at  the  ingenuity  of  the  Lamberti  who 
had  availed  himself  of  the  natural  caverns  in  the 
hills  to  construct  such  a  passageway.  We  en- 
countered no  one  that  night,  but  my  companion 
was  delighted  with  our  night's  work.  Thursday 
night  we  returned,  entered  silently  as  before,  and 
again  stationed  our  men  in  the  first  of  the  caves 
near  the  entrance.  This  time  we  scarcely  en- 
tered before  we  heard  the  voices  of  two  men  just 
ahead  of  us.  They  were  apparently  on  their 
way  to  an  appointed  rendezvous.  After  a  time 
we  followed.  Presently  we  heard  a  number  of 
men  talking,  and  although  we  dared  not  ap- 
proach near  enough  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them, 
we  heard  quite  enough  for  our  purposes. 

"  '  A  devil  of  a  time  we've  had  getting  that  big 
diamond ! '  growled  one.  *  The  other  crowd  is 
holding  it  up.  The  Count  says  he  must  have  it 
by  Saturday  or  one  of  our  lives  will  pay  the 
forfeit.' 

"'Why,  Saturday?' 

" '  The  government  will  send  to  the  castle  then 
for  the  royal  diamonds.' 


FINAL     BECKONING          341 

"  We  listened  for  some  time  and  discovered 
that  this  precious  band  of  scoundrels  are  getting 
their  diamonds  from  a  gang  of  thieves  operating 
in  another  country  whence  they  were  smuggled  in 
to  the  Count,  who  has  guaranteed  to  dispose  of 
them  under  cover  of  his  scientific  discovery. 

"  *  Rek  says  we  can  have  it  Friday  night,'  said 
a  man  who  had  not  spoken  before.  He  was 
presently  dispatched  along  the  passage  to  the 
castle  to  inform  Count  Teodoro  that  the  big  dia- 
mond would  be  brought  to  the  central  cave  Fri- 
day at  midnight. 

"We  suspected  that  Count  Teodoro's  temper 
is  violent  and  uncertain,  and  that  the  men  are 
in  the  main  somewhat  afraid  of  him.  Indeed 
our  suspicion  was  corroborated  by  what  we  over- 
heard. 

"  '  No  one  has  told  the  Count  yet  of  that  long- 
haired maniac  who  went  yelling  and  screaming 
through  the  caves? '  questioned  one  of  the  smug- 
glers and  the  man  Giuseppe  answered  glumly : 

" '  Who  would  dare?  He  would  kill  one  of  us 
if  he  knew  that  a  stranger  had  blundered  into 
the  passage.  I  told  him  we  were  chasing  Pas- 
qualina  in  a  game  we  sometimes  play.  He  grum- 
bled much  at  the  noise  we  had  made.' 

"  Friday  night  we  stationed  a  boatload  of 
heavily  armed  men  at  a  point  up  the  coast.  An- 
other force  was  concealed  in  the  first  cave  of 
the  passage.  Well,  Signori,"  the  Italian  smiled, 


342  TRAUMEEEI 

"it  was  quite  the  simplest,  most  orderly  pro- 
ceeding that  ever  occurred.  The  smugglers  en- 
tered silently,  one  by  one  at  discreet  intervals, 
on  their  way  to  the  rendezvous  to  meet  the  Count, 
and  as  each  of  the  rascals  arrived  he  was  sur- 
rounded, bound,  gagged  and  laid  aside  before  he 
could  guess  what  had  happened.  Very  quiet,  no 
disorder,  not  even  a  gunshot.  We  waited  some 
time  after  the  last  capture  to  make  sure  that  we 
had  them  all,  and  by  eleven-thirty  that  band  of 
rogues  was  aboard  the  revene  cutter  in  chains 
and  the  big  diamond  was  in  the  possession  of  the 
government,  in  a  vastly  different  manner,  how- 
ever, than  the  Count  had  planned." 

"  But  Count  Teodoro  himself!  "  gasped  Kirke. 

"  Just  a  minute,  my  boy,  I  am  coming  to  that 
too.  The  first  plan  was  to  await  the  Count's  ar- 
rival in  the  rendezvous  at  midnight  Friday  (last 
night)  and  overpower  him  as  we  had  done  the 
rest.  On  second  thought,  however,  the  officials 
decided  to  allow  the  Count  to  return  to  the 
Castle,  probably  somewhat  angered  at  the  failure 
of  his  gang  to  keep  their  appointment.  The 
general  opinion  was  that  this  would  not  arouse 
his  suspicion,  since  by  the  admission  of  the  men 
themselves,  overheard  by  us,  they  had  repeatedly 
failed  him  before.  His  natural  inference  would 
be  that  they  had  failed  to  procure  the  big  dia- 
mond and  had  shirked  the  meeting,  fearing  his 
rage.  Before  another  night  should  arrive  when 


FINAL    RECKONING         343 

their  continued  absence  might  suggest  their  fate, 
the  Commission  accompanied  by  the  detachment 
of  soldiers  would  be  at  the  castle,  ostensibly  to 
get  the  diamonds,  in  reality  to  arrest  Count 
Teodoro.  In  this  way  the  diamonds  could  be 
confiscated,  partly  as  evidence,  partly  because 
the  government  takes  a  malicious  delight  in 
getting  possession  of  smuggled  stock.  At  this 
very  instant,  gentlemen,  Count  Teodoro  is  await- 
ing the  Commission  at  the  castle,  doubtless 
raging  at  his  inability  to  produce  the  great  dia- 
mond already  in  the  hands  of  the  government! 
He  has  doubtless  planned  to  deliver  the  stones 
that  are  ready  and  ask  for  more  time." 

"  It's  a  big  risk,"  said  Phil  slowly.  "  If  by 
any  chance  Count  Teodore  hears  of  it  —  " 

"  Impossible !  "  declared  the  Italian.  "  The 
entrance  to  the  passage  was  heavily  guarded  all 
night  and  no  one  sought  to  leave  or  enter  it." 

At  ten  the  imposing  coach  of  the  Commission 
appeared  on  the  crest  of  the  hillroad  and  drove 
rapidly  to  the  castle.  It  was  escorted  by  a  glit- 
tering detachment  of  cavalry  to  guard  the  dia- 
monds on  their  way  to  the  King.  Once  more  the 
peasants  poured  from  their  houses  and  gaped  in 
awe  at  the  resplendent  uniforms  and  dashing 
horses.  The  visit  was  brief.  The  Commission- 
ers presently  reappeared  and  returned  to  the 
waiting  coach;  they  were  closely  followed  by 


344  TEAUMEEEI 

Count  Teodoro  and  Giacomo,  heavily  handcuffed 
and  guarded  by  three  soldiers  who  rudely  thrust 
them  into  the  rear  of  the  great  coach  and  directed 
the  driver  to  stop  at  the  Lamberti  villa.  Count 
Teodoro's  handsome  face  went  white.  The 
thought  of  facing  the  mocking  eyes  of  the  peas- 
ants was  as  nothing  to  this  crowning  ignominy  of 
confronting  the  Lambertis.  The  coach  pulled 
up  grandly  at  the  hedge  of  fire  and  as  the  door 
beneath  the  portico  opened  in  the  hand  of  Sig- 
Bore  Lamberti  himself,  Count  Teodoro  shrank 
far  back  into  the  shadows. 

"Ah,  Signore  Lamberti,"  exclaimed  the  head 
of  the  Commission,  a  stately  white-haired  man 
whose  prominence  in  court  circles  was  of  in- 
ternational fame,  "  we  have  him,  as  you  see,  and 
the  diamonds  as  well !  " 

One  by  one  the  commissioners  shook  hands 
with  the  man  who  had  so  loyally  aided  his  gov- 
ernment. All  of  them  knew  his  story  and  now 
meeting  the  man  himself,  straight  and  tall  with 
honest  eyes  burning  steadily  beneath  his  snowy 
crown  of  hair,  they  silently  honoured  him.  As 
the  great  coach  slowly  rolled  away,  the  Head 
Commissioner  leaned  once  more  from  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Signore  Lamberti,"  he  said  significantly, 
"  you  will  hear  from  a  grateful  government  in  a 
few  days." 

As  the  coach  toiled  slowly  up  the  hillroad, 


FINAL     RECKONING          345 

there  was  a  slight  diversion  mystifying  to  all 
but  two  of  its  inmates.  A  tall  American  with  a 
dare-devil  grin  upon  his  face  emerged  from  a 
clump  of  pine  trees  and  softly  played  the 
Miserere  upon  a  flute.  Count  Teodoro  started  at 
first  in  horrified  amazement ;  then,  as  he  met  the 
significant  eyes  of  the  player,  the  look  changed 
to  one  of  sudden  comprehension  and  malevolence. 

" '  My   God,   Giacomo,  there   it   is   again ! ' 
quoted  the  American  in  deep,  guttural  imitation 
of  the  Count's  voice,  and  as  the  coach  rolled 
ponderously  on,  he  bowed  profoundly. 

The  communication  "  from  a  grateful  govern- 
ment "  came  by  special  messenger  three  days 
later  and  Signore  Lamberti  read  it  aloud  to  the 
inmates  of  the  rose-garden.  His  dark  face 
flushed  as  he  read  and  he  trembled  violently. 
The  communication  bore  the  royal  seal  and  ran 
as  follows: 

"  His  Royal  Highness  first  wishes  to  thank 
Signore  Dioneo  Lamberti  for  his  active  assist- 
ance in  apprehending  that  clever  smuggler, 
Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito.  In  view  of  the  pe- 
culiar circumstances  connected  with  the  case  and 
in  view  of  the  injustice  which  Signore  Lamberti 
has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  his  own  government 
in  the  loss  of  his  title  and  his  castle  (an  injus- 
tice which  His  Royal  Highness  begs  to  state  that 
he  did  not  fully  understand  until  quite  recently 
when  it  was  pointed  out  to  him  by  his  valued 


346  TRAUMEREI 

minister,  Signore  Benedetto  Abbato),  in  view  of 
these  facts  then  be  it  said,  His  Majesty  in  the 
name  of  the  Kingdom  of  Italy  and  his  beloved 
subjects,  out  of  the  gratitude  of  his  heart  and 
the  sincere  regret  of  previous  injustice,  does 
hereby  restore  to  Signore  Dioneo  Lamberti  his 
castle  in  the  valley  of  Beritola  with  its  attendant 
annuity,  and  his  title  of  Count  to  take  effect  im- 
mediately. By  his  own  request  Signore  Abbato 
will  bear  to  Count  Dioneo  the  necessary  docu- 
mentary transfer." 

"  Thank  God !  "  cried  the  old  Italian,  proudly 
flinging  back  his  head.  "  Thank  God !  Italia 
adorata! "  and  Aunt  Emilia  cried  softly  into  the 
depths  of  her  lace  handkerchief. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  VIOLIN 

A  WEEK  later  the  Italian  press  printed  the 
entire  story  of  the  Count's  treacherous  dia- 
mond-deal. The  smuggler  had  recognised  the 
futility  of  defence  and  confessed  in  full.  The 
papers  praised  the  able  assistance  of  Count 
Dioneo  Lamberti,  detailed  the  restoration  of  the 
Lambertis  to  their  ancestral  castle  and  eulogised 
the  rare  charm  and  fertility  of  the  quiet  vale 
hidden  away  in  the  heart  of  the  green  hills. 

Phil  read  the  account  and  laid  aside  his  paper 
to  answer  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door.  Niccolo 
stood  on  the  porch,  his  perturbed  face  hinting  of 
a  rude  upheaval  in  his  habitual  philosophy  of 
life.  Phil  motioned  him  to  the  side  of  the  house 
with  a  warning  gesture. 

"  Eccellenza"  said  the  shepherd  abruptly, 
"  Pietro  is  gone !  " 

"  You  mean,"  said  the  American  slowly,  "  that 
he  has  run  away?  " 

"  Just  that.  I  left  him  this  morning  for  a  few 
minutes,  just  as  I  have  done  many  other  morn- 
ings since  he  has  grown  stronger,  and  when  I 
returned  he  was  gone.  He  is  still  weak  and  thin, 
and  I  know  not  how  he  managed  his  legs,  but 

347 


348  TEAUMEREI 

managed  them  he  has,  so  well  that  there  is  no 
trace  of  him  in  the  valley.  Lauretta  thinks  he 
has  been  frightened  away." 

"How?" 

"  I  know  not !  There  has  been  nothing  said 
of  the  great  trouble  on  his  mind.  I  have  wanted 
much  to  tell  him  of  the  smugglers  and  the 
Count's  downfall,  but  since  the  day  I  mentioned 
Count  Teodoro's  name  and  the  lad  screamed  and 
fainted  —  curses  on  my  thick  skull!  I  have 
obeyed  Eccellenza's  orders  and  risked  no  further 
setbacks  by  my  idle  tongue.  I  have  talked  of 
all  other  things  under  the  sun  but  the  things  he 
so  raved  about." 

Phil  turned  and  climbed  the  mountain  to  the 
hut  without  a  word,  Niccolo  close  at  his  heels. 
He  threw  back  the  bed-clothes  and  uttered  a 
sharp  exclamation.  A  fresh  newspaper  lay 
there  with  the  account  of  Count  Teodoro's  im- 
prisonment uppermost. 

"  You  see,"  said  Phil  quietly,  "  someone  has 
left  this  while  you  were  gone;  it  is  dated  this 
morning,  and  the  lad  has  read  it." 

He  scanned  the  paper  with  puzzled  eyes.  It 
was  the  Neapolitan  Tribuna,  another  copy  of  the 
paper  he  had  been  reading  when  Niccolo  arrived. 
It  merely  served,  however,  to  deepen  the  mystery 
in  his  own  mind. 

"  Eccellenza,"  declared  Niccolo  stoutly,  voic- 
ing the  American's  thought,  "  who  has  left  the 


T  H  E     Y  I  O  L I  N  349 

newspaper  in  my  absence  I  know  not  and  care 
less,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  news  would  but 
make  the  lad  feel  the  more  secure  from  that 
accursed  scoundrel's  persecutions.  It  is  what  I 
had  wished  to  tell  him  for  several  days.  Why 
should  he  run  away?" 

"  God  knows !  "  exclaimed  Phil  bitterly.  He 
felt  annoyed  and  discouraged.  Pietro's  odd 
flitting  left  the  remaining  knots  in  the  silver 
cord  still  untangled.  With  a  shrug  the  Ameri- 
can descended  the  mountain  and  entered  the 
.Villa  Spa  Gett,  thwarted  at  the  end  by  the  hys- 
terical impulse  of  a  sick  peasant  lad.  Kirke  was 
too  absorbed  in  the  letter  before  him  to  notice 
the  shadow  upon  his  friend's  face.  A  small  blue 
card  lay  upon  the  table  and  Phil  bent  over  and 
read  it  aloud.  It  bore  the  words : 

"  Nocturnia,  Kirke  Kenwood  Bentley,  The 
Golden  Cross." 

The  letter  with  it  was  brief  and  enthusiastic. 

"  By  the  way,"  it  read  in  conclusion,  "  I  find 
in  some  ancient  records  of  Golden  Cross  awards 
mention  of  one  Niccolo  Lamberti  who  hails  from 
the  same  valley  in  which  you  are  spending  your 
summer.  Keep  going,  keep  going.  To  a  man 
with  your  genius,  it  is  my  only  advice! 

"  SALVATORE." 

Late  that  afternoon  Kirke  borrowed  the  Pan- 
hard  and  went  to  Naples  for  the  violin.  Phil 
had  quietly  made  the  suggestion  without  offering 


350  TEAUMEREI 

any  explanation  of  his  sudden  decision  and  the 
other,  nothing  loath  to  obey  the  reinforcement 
of  his  own  desire,  had  hastened  away  over  the 
hills,  gauging  the  speed  of  the  great  machine  to 
the  rushing  song  of  his  blood,  ilt  was  a  mad 
race  in  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset  facing  a  sky 
of  gold  and  a  wind  of  pine  and  orange.  The 
blue  of  the  sea  was  deeper  and  life  lay  ahead, 
gloriously  alight  with  ambition  and  love!  I 

With  the  precious  Stradivarius  once  more  in 
his  possession,  Kirke  sought  the  road  to  Beritola 
and  drove  swiftly  homeward.  '<  It  was  dusk  when 
he  reached  the  valley,  a  purple  dimness  replete 
with  memory.  Where  the  road  skirted  the  lake 
he  stopped  the  throbbing  of  the  Panhard  engine 
and  sat  silent.  The  soft  tones  of  an  organ  had 
reached  his  ear  and  he  knew  that  Beatrice  was 
in  the  chapel.  All  about  the  lake  lay  a  grey 
stillness,  of  which  the  organ  melody  and  the 
sound  of  the  lapping  water  strangely  enough 
seemed  a  harmonious  part.  Kirke  opened  the 
case  and  reverently  touched  the  old  Stradivarius 
within  it.  An  inanimate  thing,  yes!  a  thing  of 
wood  and  string  and  varnish  fashioned  into  im- 
mortality by  the  thin  fingers  of  an  old  man,  but 
from  his  trip  to  Beritola  to  Count  Teodoro's 
downfall  and  Signore  Lamberti's  consequent  res- 
toration to  honour  and  prominence  in  his  native 
land,  the  violin  had  been  at  first  the  cause  of 
the  tangled  thread  of  silver  and  later  of  its  un- 


THE    .VIOLIN  351 

ravelling.  The  friendship  of  this  girl  whose 
fingers  played  the  requiem  of  the  dying  day  in 
the  lakeside  chapel ;  his  own  awakening  from  in- 
tellectual lethargy;  the  Golden  Cross;  it  had 
given  him  all  these!  In  pagan  days  he  would 
have  bent  his  knee  to  the  old  violin  and  voiced 
his  gratitude  in  a  prayer  of  idolatry,  but  to-night 
he  laid  his  fingers  gently  across  the  strings  with 
a  sudden  mist  in  his  eyes  and  a  great  prayer  of 
thankfulness  in  his  heart.  And  with  it,  too,  had 
come  a  better  understanding  of  Philip  Ains- 
worth,  the  man  who  had  quietly  slipped  off  a 
lifetime  cloak  of  indolence  and  frivolity  when 
there  was  work  to  do;  hunting  the  lost  Stradi- 
varius;  exploring  the  secret  passage  at  the  risk 
of  his  life ;  generously  imparting  his  information 
incognito  to  the  man  who  could  best  benefit  by 
it,  and  shrinking  away  like  an  embarrassed 
schoolboy  at  the  first  word  of  thanks !  In  a  sud- 
den impulse  Kirke  bared  his  head  in  tribute  to 
Philip  Ainsworth. 

The  sound  of  the  organ  had  ceased.  It  was 
growing  darker.  Kirke  heard  the  dip  of  paddles 
and  he  knew  by  the  sound  that  Beatrice  was 
creeping  softly  across  the  lake  shadows  she  loved 
in  fanciful  obedience  to  the  whim  that  they  were 
slumbering  nymphs  of  the  night.  A  wave  of 
tenderness  swept  over  the  man  sitting  silently  in 
the  Panhard.  Her  fancies  were  as  the  setting 
of  gold  for  a  rare  jewel.  She  was  going  home 


352  TBAUMEREI 

through  the  twilight  to  the  old  rose-garden  where 
even  now  his  mother  and  Margaret  and  Phil  sat 
in  the  perfect  understanding  of  a  growing  friend- 
ship. And  in  a  little  while  he,  too,  would  join 
them,  bearing  in  his  hands  Cainillo  Lamberti's 
violin  brought  back  to  them  from  across  the  seas. 

The  moon  had  risen  by  the  time  he  had  deliv- 
ered the  Panhard  into  Riley's  capable  hands,  a 
delicate  glory  that  thrilled  him  with  its  tranquil 
light.  A  wonderful  peace  lay  brooding  over  the 
valley,  over  the  trees  and  hills,  over  the  gabled 
houses  and  the  silent  castle  grimly  stretched 
along  the  ridge.  The  hedge  of  fire,  too,  was 
bathed  in  its  tender  glow.  Ah  —  yes !  it  had  in- 
deed been  a  hedge  of  fire  and,  he  had  passed 
through  the  cleansing  fire  purged  of  the  old,  mor- 
bid discontent. 

At  the  side  of  the  villa  he  paused  in  the 
shadow  of  a  thicket  of  ilex.  Ahead  he  could 
see  the  old  rose-garden  irradiated  by  the  white 
light  of  the  moon.  They  were  all  there,  Beatrice, 
his  mother,  Margaret,  Phil,  Aunt  Emilia,  and 
Signore  Lamberti  whose  laugh  rang  out  hap- 
pily to-night  from  time  to  time.  The  American 
watched  the  scene,  his  eyes  alight  with  memories 
of  the  summer.  The  old  rose-garden,  silvered 
now  by  a  moonlight  which  rendered  leaf  and  rose 
and  grape  oddly  ethereal, :  had  given  him  many 
happy  hours,  and,  thank  God!  would  give  him 
many  more.  As  he  took  a  step  forward,  eager 


THE     VIOLIN  353 

to  lay  the  Stradivarius  in  the  hands  of  its  right- 
ful owner,  the  shrubbery  ahead  of  him  suddenly 
rustled  and  parted  and  a  figure  crept  to  the  old 
rose-garden  and  flung  itself  at  Signore  Lam- 
berti's  feet  with  a  low  moan.  Kirke,  following 
softly  and  swiftly  in  the  shadow  of  the  date 
trees,  could  see  the  ragged  clothes  and  the  soiled 
handkerchief  knotted  below  a  face  white  and 
wan  and  sick. 

"  Ah,  Signore.  Signore ! "  he  moaned,  "  God 
forgive  me ! " 

It  was  Pietro,  ragged  and  dusty  with  his  day's 
travel,  and  instinctively  Kirke  stepped  back  into 
shadow.  Phil  had  leaped  to  his  feet  at  the  sight 
of  the  Italian  lad,  quietly  reseating  himself  again, 
however,  with  a  sudden  premonition  of  the  boy's 
intention.  To  the  American,  Pietro's  odd  dis- 
appearance of  the  morning  had  explained 
itself. 

"  You  gave  me  the  music,  master,  you  opened 
the  gates  here  and  I  — "  the  lad  choked  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Presently  he 
looked  up,  his  eyes  full  of  unnatural  light,  and 
laid  a  roll  of  bills  in  Signore  Lamberti's  hands. 
"  Take  it,  master,"  he  cried,  "  take  it !  It  is  ac- 
cursed for  me.  Pietro  Masetto's  soul  is  sick 
within  him ! " 

"  Pietro,  be  calm ! "  said  Signore  Lamberti 
quietly,  "  I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  Why 
are  you  here?  " 


354  TRAUMEBEI 

"  He  is  in  prison.  I  saw  it  in  the  papers  this 
morning  and  I  fear  him  no  longer !  " 

"  Who?  " 

"  Count  Teodoro  di  Gomito,  Signore.  He 
tempted  me,  he  —  he  —  "  the  boy  flung  himself 
face  downward  in  an  agony  of  abasement  and 
his  shoulders  shook  in  the  gust  of  passion  that 
swept  over  him. 

"  Pietro,"  exclaimed  Signore  Lamberti 
sternly,  "you  must  calm  yourself."  He  bent 
over  and  laid  his  hand  firmly  on  the  prostrate 
lad's  shoulders.  "  The  padrone/'  he  said  slowly, 
"  asks  it  of  you  as  a  favor  to  him !  Tell  me  the 
story." 

"  Master,  oh  God !  it  was  Pietro,  Pietro  whom 
you  took  into  your  house  and  taught  the  music, 
Pietro  who  like  the  dog  that  he  is  stole  your 
violin! " 

And  again  he  threw  himself  upon  the  grass  in 
passionate  abandon.  For  an  instant  a  great  si- 
lence fell  over  the  rose-garden.  When  Signore 
Lamberti  at  length  spoke  his  voice  trembled 
oddly. 

"My  —  my  violin,  Pietro?  My  Stradiva- 
rius?  "  He  leaned  forward,  no  longer  able  to 
control  his  excitement.  "  Speak,  speak,  Pietro. 
Where  is  it?  " 

Pietro  looked  up,  his  face  deathly  white  in  the 
moonlight,  his  eyes  burning  with  misery. 

"  I  sold  it,   Signore  Lamberti  — "   the  tones 


THE     VIOLIN  355 

were  so  full  of  shame  and  so  low  that 
Kirke  strained  to  hear  them  — "  sold  it  in 
America  when  I  was  hungry  and  sick  for 
Italy  and  Lauretta.  With  the  money  I  came 
home  and  since  I  have  earned  again  as  much  as 
the  American  paid  me.  You  take  it,  master,  it 
has  eaten  my  heart  out." 

"  You  spoke  of  Count  Teodoro.  Tell  the  story 
in  your  own  way." 

Pietro  gulped.  The  quiet  tones  of  his  beloved 
padrone,  however,  had  in  part  soothed  away  his 
agitation.  He  sank  on  one  knee  and  bowed  his 
head,  a  humble  peasant  at  the  feet  of  his  master. 

"  Signore  Lamberti  knows,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  that  Pietro  Masetto  was  an  idle  fellow  who 
hated  work,  that  he  loved  better  to  lie  on  the  hills 
and  play  his  violin,  trying  to  catch  the  songs  of 
the  birds  and  playing  out  the  stories  that  grew 
in  his  mind."  He  paused.  "  I  loved  Manuel's 
Lauretta,  Signore,"  he  added  finally,  "  but  Man- 
uel always  said,  '  Too  lazy,  Pietro.  These  music 
stories  you  play  bring  in  no  bread.  When  you 
get  a  little  house  and  a  vegetable  garden,  then 
you  may  have  Lauretta.' 

"  Count  Teodoro  knew  all  this,  Signore.  One 
day  he  came  to  me  on  the  hills.  (  Pietro,'  he 
said,  'you  have  seen  Signore  Lamberti's  violin? 
It  is  old,  it  is  bewitched,  it  is  possessed  of  a 
thousand  devils  and  has  always  brought  him  bad 
luck.  He  keeps  it,  for  he  is  afraid  to  part  with 


356  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

it,  fearing  lie  will  be  accursed.  Should  it  dis- 
appear through  no  fault  of  his,  he  would  indeed 
be  happy ! '  I  said  nothing,  for  at  first  I  under- 
stood nothing  of  what  he  was  about  to  say. 
Presently  he  added,  *  Pietro,  you  steal  for  me 
this  accursed  violin  and  I  will  give  you  for  your 
very  own  the  little  house  in  the  pines  on  Mc- 
colo's  mountain.' ' 

"  The  Villa  Spa  Gett!  "  thought  Kirke  in  won- 
der. It  was  but  another  curious  development 
in  the  history  of  the  summer.  He  had  come  to 
live  in  the  cottage  that  had  been  the  temptation 
of  the  lad  who  sold  him  the  Stradivarius ! 

"  At  first,"  continued  Pietro,  "  I  said  no !  that 
I  could  not  steal  from  the  padrone,  but  he  talked 
and  talked;  of  the  bad  luck  the  violin  had 
brought  and  how  the  padrone  had  lost  his  castle 
and  his  land  because  of  it.  I  know  now  that  it 
is  not  true,  for  I  have  been  told  that  the  padrone 
lost  his  castle  long  before  he  owned  the  violin, 
but  I  believed  it  then  and  grew/to  dream  of  the 
cottage  on  the  mountain  where  Lauretta  and  I 
might  live  in  happiness.}  The  thought  of  it 
haunted  me  day  and  night.  Perhaps  if  I  did  not 
steal  the  violin  there  would  be  no  happiness  for 
me  in  this  world.  So  little  by  little,"  Pietro's 
tones  were  full  of  shame,  "  I  grew  to  think  more 
of  stealing.  I  would  look  at  the  cottage  in  the 
pines  and  back  again  at  Lauretta,  and  my  head 
would  reel  and  grow  crazy.  What  happiness 


THE    VIOLIN  357 

could  be  mine  and  all  for  stealing  an  old  violin 
that  had  brought  the  padrone  much  bad  luck ! " 
He  paused  and  added  with  an  effort,  "  The  temp- 
tation was  too  strong,  Signore.  One  night  I 
crept  into  the  villa  while  you  sat  here  in  the 
rose-garden  as  you  do  to-night.  You  trusted 
everyone  in  Beritola  and  gave  no  thought  to 
your  open  doors  and  windows.  I  —  I  stole  the 
violin  and  fled  through  the  valley  to  Niccolo'8 
mountain.  Above  the  mountain  cottage  Count 
Teodoro  awaited  me.  I  had  promised  to  bring 
the  violin  there  to  him  and  I  did.  I  laid  it  in 
his  hands  and  when  he  saw  it  safe  in  his  pos- 
session, he  began  to  taunt  me  and  laughed  at 
my  anger.  Of  course  he  would  not  give  me  the 
cottage,  he  said.  He  had  not  meant  to  at  any 
time.  It  was  too  big  a  price  to  pay  for  a  small 
favour,  and  more,  he  reminded  me  that  I  dared 
not  murmur  against  it  or  he  would  expose  my 
theft,  take  the  violin  back  to  Signore  Lamberti 
and  explain  that  he  had  caught  me  stealing  it. 
He  maddened  me,  Signore.  We  quarrelled  and  I 
grew  furious.  In  blind  rage,  I  seized  a  heavy 
stone  from  the  mountainside  and  struck  him  on 
the  head.  He  fell  like  a  log.  I  leaned  over  him, 
he  seemed  to  be  quite  dead,  and  with  the  awful 
horror  in  my  heart  that  I  was  not  only  a  thief 
but  a  murderer  as  well,  and  that  I  dared  never 
see  the  light  of  another  morning  in  Beritola,  I 
took  the  violin  and  fled  with  it  under  cover  of 


358  TRAUMEREI 

the  night  over  the  hills  to  Napoli,  my  only 
thought  to  get  away,  far  away  from  the  man  I 
had  robbed  and  the  other  man  I  had  murdered. 

"  From  Napoli  I  fled  to  America  with  money 
borrowed  from  my  cousin  who  knew  that  my 
promise  to  repay  was  good.  In  America  I  tried 
to  work  and  forget.  But  I  grew  so  homesick  for 
Lauretta  and  Beritola  that  I  knew  not  what  to 
do.  I  grew  sick  in  body  too  and  could  not  work ; 
then  I  grew  hungry  and  wandered  about  the 
streets  and  later  in  the  country.  Once  I  showed 
the  violin  to  an  Italian.  He  looked  at  me 
strangely  and  offered  me  two  hundred  dollars  for 
it.  He  was  anxious  to  buy  it,  but  I  was  not  hun- 
gry enough  yet  to  sell  the  padrone's  violin,  and  I 
wandered  on.  I  grew  thinner  and  hungrier  day 
by  day  and  finally  when  I  had  grown  desperate 
I  remembered  the  Italian's  offer.  I  thought 
since  my  heart  is  so  homesick  for  Italy  and 
Lauretta,  I  will  sell  the  violin  for  two  hundred 
dollars,  cross  the  ocean  again  and  go  to  Beritola 
in  the  night.  Then  I  can  take  Lauretta  away  in 
secret  to  Sicily,  where  no  one  will  know  of  Pie- 
tro  Hasetto's  crime.  I  hunted  again  for  the 
Italian.  He  was  not  to  be  found  and  they  sent 
me  to  a  young  American  Signore,  very  rich  and 
very  fond  of  music. 

"  Signore  Lamberti,  I  sold  the  violin  for  two 
hundred  dollars  and  my  hell  commenced.  Your 
face,  your  voice,  your  kindness  haunted  me  day 


THE     VIOLIN  359 

and  night.  I  came  back  to  Italy  homesick  and 
heartsick.  In  Napoli  I  grew  frantic  with  the 
memories  of  your  kindness.  I  prayed  to  the 
Holy  Mother  for  relief,  and  when  I  arose  from 
my  knees  I  knew  that  I  must  make  atonement  or 
die  of  the  awful  pain  in  my  heart.  I  knew  then 
that  I  should  never  have  sold  the  violin,  and  so 
I  thought  to  earn  as  much  money  as  the  Ameri- 
can had  paid  me  and  bring  it  to  you,  confessing 
all.  I  went  to  Sicily  and  worked  in  the  sulphur 
mines;  at  night,  too,  I  worked  with  the  Sicilian 
fishermen  to  get  more  money,  and  presently 
when  I  had  saved  as  much  as  the  American  paid 
me,  I  came  back  to  Napoli  and  started  over  the 
hills  at  night  for  Beritola.  The  pain  was  gnaw- 
ing at  my  heart  and  I  longed  to  confess  to  the 
padrone  and  give  him  the  money.  I  crept  back 
of  the  hills  and  came  down  to  Beritola  over  the 
far  side  of  Niccolo's  mountain,  stopping  to  look 
up  at  the  cottage  in  the  pines.  A  man  chased 
me  up  the  mountain  again.  Back  of  the  hills 
on  the  other  side  of  Beritola,  I  questioned  a  boy 
who  told  me  that  Count  Teodoro  was  still  alive 
when  I  had  thought  him  dead,  and  I  guessed 
then  that  it  had  been  he  who  chased  me,  that 
he  meant  to  kill  me,  so  that  I  might  not  tell  the 
story  of  the  violin.  Back  in  my  cousin's  house 
at  Napoli  I  grew  ill.  One  night  I  felt  that  I 
must  see  Lauretta  or  die,  and  again  I  stole  over 
the  hills  to  the  other  side  of  Niccolo's  mountain. 


360  T  R  A  U  M  E  R  E  I 

In  front  of  his  hut,  I  dropped  of  weariness  and 
he  took  me  in.  Lauretta  and  Marietta  came  to 
me.  I  have  been  sick  unto  death  for  many  days 
hidden  away  up  there  in  Mccolo's  hut.  He  and 
the  kind  American  have  given  me  back  my  life. 

"  This  morning  Tony  came  up  to  the  hut  with 
a  paper  telling  of  Count  Teodoro's  smuggling 
and  his  imprisonment.  Niccolo  was  not  there 
and  we  talked  and  talked.  I  told  Tony  much, 
of  the  money  in  the  Neapolitan  bank  which  I 
had  saved  and  how  I  was  no  longer  afraid  to  go 
to  Signore  Lamberti  now  that  the  Count  was  in 
prison.  '  Pietro,'  said  Tony,  laying  his  hand 
upon  my  arm,  '  slip  down  the  far  side  of  the 
mountain  and  I  will  come  for  you.  You  can  get 
your  money  from  the  bank  and  I  will  bring  you 
back  to  Beritola  after  you  have  rested.  Take  it 
then  to  Signore  Lamberti  and  tell  him  all ! ' 
And  I  did  as  he  said.  He  drove  me  into  Napoli 
and  back  to-night  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  for 
I  had  grown  weak.  I  offered  him  money,  but 
he  said,  '  Pietro,  God  knows  I  love  to  gather 
soldi,  but  I  take  them  not  from  a  sick  lad  such 
as  you.  Go  to  Signore  Lamberti.  If  the  Ameri- 
can Eccellenza  can  show  you  the  great  kindness 
he  has,  'tis  but  little  that  Truthful  Tony  can  do 
for  one  of  his  own  kind ! ' 

Phil  silently  marvelled  at  the  inconsistent 
vagaries  of  the  dare-devil  driver.  His  kindly 
offer  to  Pietro  had  been  an  odd  climax  indeed 


THE     VIOLIN  361 

to  his  whirlwind  progress  through  the  valley 
that  morning.  Early  that  afternoon  Phil  had 
heard  the  story  of  Tony's  arrival  in  Beritola 
with  a  cart  full  of  the  newspapers  containing  the 
account  of  Count  Teodoro's  imprisonment,  and 
he  had  rightly  guessed  the  identity  of  the  hand 
that  had  taken  the  Tribuna  to  the  mountain  hut. 
The  financier  of  Napoli,  whose  commercial  prog- 
ress had  until  this  summer  been  impeded  by  so 
many  obstacles,  had  instantly  foreseen  the 
marketable  value  of  the  Tribuna  and  its  flaring 
headlines  in  the  village  where  Count  Teodoro 
had  lived  and  schemed;  where  he  had  made  his 
scientific  researches  and  antagonised  the  peas- 
ants and  whence  he  had  flitted  away  in  a  great 
coach  as  suddenly  as  he  had  come  many  years 
before.  The  news  vendor  had  made  the  rounds 
of  the  valley,  selling  his  papers  at  thrice  their 
value  with  an  infinity  of  brazen  grins.  Even- 
tually he  had  climbed  the  mountain  that  he  might 
not  miss  Niccolo's  pittance  and  there,  of  course, 
he  had  found  Pietro.  Verily  those  accursed 
conspirators  so  often  quoted  by  their  victim  had 
not  foreseen  the  redoubtable  Tony's  wild  specu- 
lation in  newspapers. 

"  Put  me  in  prison  if  you  will,  Signore," 
begged  Pietro  humbly.  "  My  soul  is  sick  and 
I  care  for  naught  but  your  forgiveness." 

But  there  was  no  thought  of  prison  in  the 
kindly  face  of  the  man  who  bent  over  the 


TRAUMEREI 

stricken  lad  at  his  feet  and  gently  touched  his 
shoulder.  a  Stand  up,  Pietro,*  he  said  quietly. 
"Be  a  man.  God  knows  yon  are  not  a  thief, 
not  as  I  understand  the  word.  Count  Teodoro 
was  the  guilty  one,"*  but  the  boy  broke  in  with 
a  hopeless  misery  in  his  voice.  There  was  a 
simple  dignity  in  his  conception  of  ethics.  The 
hand  that  had  taken  the  violin  belonged  to  him, 
then  why  not  the  guilt? 

toXo  —  no,  Signore,"  he  said,  "I,  Pietro,  am 
the  thief.  I  took  the  violin,  I  sold  it,  and  I  am 
here  to  make  what  atonement  I  can.*7 

"Not  so  much  dishonest,  Pietro,  as  weak/' 
Kirke  thrilled  at  the  generous  words.  "Count 
Teodoro  held  out  an  alluring  prospect  to  yon  in 
the  mountain  cottage  and  yon  fell.  God  knows 
you  have  suffered  enough  and  I  can  not  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  do  aught  but  forgive  you/* 

Kirke  silently  stepped  from  the  shadows. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Signore  Lamberti,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  Count  Teodoro  is  the  real  male- 
factor in  this  affair  and  I  am  the  American  to 
whom  Pietro  sold  your  violin.  That  is  what 
brought  me  to  Beritola."  He  gravely  laid  the 
violin  case  upon  the  Italian's  knees  and  turned 
to  Pietro.  "Get  up,  Pietro,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  It  was  I,  too,  who  chased  you  up  the  mountain 
that  night  and  I  wanted  just  this  story  you  have 
told  to-night." 

u  My — my  violin !  Signore  Bentley,"  there  was 


THE    .VIOLIN  363 

a  sudden  quiver  in  the  old  Italian's  voice,  "  you 
—  you  don't — you  can't  mean  that  this  is  my 
Stradivarius!" 

"  Just  that"  Kirke  bent  and  opened  the  case 
and  as  the  musician  saw  the  familiar  lines  of  his 
beloved  instrument  and  the  delicate  sheen  of  the 
satin  varnish,  he  sank  back  in  his  chair  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  God  is  good! "  he  said  brokenly.  "It  is  very 
wonderfuL" 

With  a  sudden  cry  Pietro  seized  Kirke  s  hand 
and  stared  wonderingly  up  into  his  face. 

" Eccettenza"  he  cried,  a  great  astonishment 
in  his  voice,  "you  brought  the  violin  back!*5 
The  American's  discovery  of  the  owner  seemed 
to  him  supernatural. 

Striving  to  regain  his  self-control,  Signore 
Lamberti  suddenly  stooped  and  picked  up  Pie- 
tro's  roll  of  money. 

"  Take  your  money,  Pietro,"  he  said.  "  I  had 
no  intention  of  taking  it  It  belongs  to  Eccel- 
lenza  Bentley."  But  Kirke  shook  his  head. 

"Keep  it,  Pietro!"  he  said.  "It  is  but  a 
small  return  for  the  suffering  the  violin  hag 
brought  you  and  the  happiness  it  has  brought 
me." 

Aunt  Emilia's  fine  old  face  bore  traces  of  re- 
cent tears,  but  there  was  a  great  excitement  in 
her  eyes.  Now  even  as  a  hush  fell  over  the  rose- 
garden  again,  Lauretta  appeared  in  the  villa 


364 

door,  a  wonderful  light  in  her  red-brown  eyes. 

"  Pietro,  my  Pietro!"  she  cried  with  a  sob. 
"  You  have  come  back.  I  had  thought  you  were 
gone  again ! " 

"  Yes,  Lauretta,"  said  the  boy  humbly,  "  back, 
and  a  man  once  more,  thanks  to  the  blessed 
padrone  and  the  honest  American  from  over  the 
sea." 

The  two  went  off  into  the  night.  At  the  arbour 
Pietro  paused,  his  dark  face  telling  what  his  lips 
could  not. 

"  May  the  Holy  Mother  send  you  all  the  best 
she  has !  "  he  said  abruptly,  and  the  boy's  simple 
words  were  a  blessing  that  touched  them  all. 

"  Weak,  just  weak !  "  exclaimed  Signore  Lam- 
berti.  "  The  boy  is  no  more  a  thief  than  I  am. 
He  loves  with  an  Italian's  fire,';  and  his  love  for 
Lauretta  tempted  him  too  strongly.  My  mind 
is  still  a  confused  tangle,"  he  added,  passing  his 
hand  mechanically  over  his  forehead,  "  God  has 
been  very  good  to  me.  Will  you  tell  me  the 
whole  story,  Signore  Bentley,  that  I  may  come 
to  a  better  understanding  of  things?  " 

And  quietly  Kirke  told  him  the  story  of  the 
summer,  of  his  purchase  from  Pietro,  of  the  trip 
to  Beritola,  the  subsequent  theft  of  the  Stradi- 
varius  from  his  own  trunk  and  Phil's  part  in 
its  recovery.  Signore  Lamberti  listened  gravely. 

"  You  have  a  sense  of  honour  that  is  unusual, 
Signore  Bentley ! "  he  interrupted  abruptly. 


T  H  E     V  I  O  L  I  N  365 

"  Few  people  would  have  coine  to  an  obscure 
valley  for  a  similar  reason." 

He  smiled  at  the  account  of  the  ghost  flute 
that  had  played  under  the  castle  window  and  a 
little  later  grew  very  thoughtful.  Suddenly  he 
crossed  to  Phil  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
American's  shoulder. 

"  Signore  Ainsworth,"  he  said  quietly,  "  you 
sent  me  those  notes !  I  know  now  that  it  could 
have  been  no  other."  Phil  flushed  a  little  and 
strove  to  speak,  but  the  other  went  on  simply, 
"My  boy,  I  thank  you.  My  Stradivarius  has 
brought  with  it  the  best  friends  of  my  life." 
Abruptly  he  turned  away,  deeply  shaken  by  pow- 
erful emotion.  To  these  two  Americans  who 
had  stepped  in  and  mended  the  broken  thread 
of  his  life,  words  were  somehow  impossible. 

"  It  is  scarcely  credible,"  he  said  presently, 
"  that  Count  Teodoro  could  have  stolen  the 
Stradivarius  for  the  motives  you  mention,  Sig- 
nore Bentley,  but  the  facts  bear  it  out.  Yes, 
yes,  I  see  it  all.  He  alone  knew  of  the  violin's 
value  and  its  history,  its  peculiar  formation  and 
the  part  it  was  playing  in  my  opera;  how  I  had 
planned  to  try  for  the  prize  that  I  might*  free 
the  villa  from  its  burden  of  debt."  And  a  little 
later  he  added,  "  God  have  mercy  upon  his 
soul ! " 

"  Count  Teodoro  was  so  clever,"  suggested 
Phil,  smiling,  "  that  he  outwitted  even  himself. 


366  TEAUMEKEI 

He  paid  the  tax  and  to-day  you  benefit  by  it." 

Signore  Lamberti  held  up  the  Stradivarius. 

"  Now,  now,  with  your  aid,  my  wonderful 
wizard,"  he  said,  "  I  can  finish  my  opera !  "  He 
threw  back  his  head  with  an  odd  gesture  of  con- 
tent. 

"  Dear  friends,"  he  said  quietly,  "  happiness 
has  come  to  me  late,  perhaps,  but  it  is  all  the 
stronger  for  the  waiting^  **For  a  quarter  of  a 
century  I  have  known  little  of  the  joy  I  feel  to- 
night. The  castle  is  mine  again;  my  Stradiva- 
rius, the  friendship  of  people  whom  my  ancestors 
would  have  been  proud  to  know !  "  It  was  a 
very  great  compliment  for  the  courteous  old  fel- 
low to  make,  and  Kirke  thrilled.  "  And  you," 
he  added,  "  would  have  been  glad  to  know  them. 
1  Honour  and  truth  and  loyalty  means  the  same  to 
you  as  it  meant  to  them !  God  is  very  good."\ 

In  the  old-fashioned  sitting-room  of  the  villa 
with  these  loyal  friends  of  the  summer  about 
him,  Signore  Lamberti  presently  took  up  his 
Stradivarius  and  rested  his  chin  upon  the  red- 
gold  wood  with  a  gesture  of  reverence.  As  he 
raised  the  bow,  Kirke  glanced  involuntarily  at 
the  picture  of  Camillo  Lamberti  behind  the 
piano.  The  figures  were  identical!  There  was 
the  same  mystic  fire  in  the  dark  eyes,  the  same 
surrender  of  the  body  to  the  call  of  an  unseen 
spirit,  the  same  powerful  contrast  of  eyes  and 
brows  and  hair.  Gently  the  Italian  drew  the 


THE    VIOLIN  367 

bow  across  the  strings  in  an  improvisation  quiet 
and  restful.  No  hint  of  storms  marred  the  tran- 
quil melody.  The  strings  were  crooning  a  song 
of  peace.  Presently,  however,  the  voice  of  the 
violin  grew,  grew  to  a  powerful  tone  timbre  that 
filled  the  old  room  with  a  wilder  song  and  died 
away  to  a  whisper  of  grief. 

With  an  impetuous  gesture  the  old  violinist 
straightened  his  body  and  flung  back  his  snow- 
white  head ;  then  the  bow  cleft  the  air  and  struck 
the  strings  again  with  startling  suddenness, 
showering  a  passionate  storm  of  melody  from 
the  wailing  strings.  The  sparkle  of  sympathy, 
of  fire,  of  a  wonderful  tenderness  seemed  to  leap 
in  a  sobbing  breath  from  the  bow  like 
an  opalescent  flame,  gliding  from  agitated 
crescendo  to  whispering  echo  with  the  perfect 
play  and  blending  of  a  rainbow.  A  mighty  voice 
from  the  very  heart  of  the  old  violin  took  up  the 
plaintive  song,  a  song  of  turbulence  and  revolt 
and  a  clash  with  warring  Fate. 

The  Italian's  eyes  had  closed  now;  his  dark 
face,  oddly  picturesque  beneath  its  crown  of 
snow-white  hair,  was  alight  with  feeling,  and 
Kirke  fancied  he  was  playing  the  story  of  the 
summer,  its  tranquillity  darkened  at  first  by 
pangs  of  sorrow  and  later  lightened  by  a  great 
joy.  The  voice  from  the  Stradivarius,  so  elo- 
quent indeed  that  it  seemed  inspired  by  the  soul 
of  the  great  Camillo,  sang  of  joy  and  of  pain, 


368  TRAUMEREI 

of  love  and  passion,  of  the  afterglow  of  sunshine 
that  follows  the  storm,  and  Kirke's  blood  leaped 
in  passionate  response ;  then,  in  tones  of  infinite 
content,  the  improvised  melody  blended  into  the 
strains  of  the  Traumerei  and  Kirke  sank  back 
in  shadow. 

One  by  one,  as  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  the 
memories  woven  about  the  Traumerei  rose  be- 
fore him  in  shimmering  iridescence.  The  lawn 
beneath  the  elms  back  home  where  he  had  played 
it  with  Pietro's  mournful  eyes  upon  him;  the 
dream  chapel  and  the  purple  dusk  with  the  oboe 
carrying  the  melody  again  to  him  across  the 
lake ;  that  first  night  here  at  the  Lambertis'  when 
he  had  played  it  at  the  old-fashioned  piano  yon- 
der, his  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  girl  who  had 
inspired  his  picture;  that  other  night  in  the 
gathering  storm, —  ah !  yes,  the  melody  had  even 
crept  into  his  picture  of  Nocturnia.  Had  he  not 
whistled  it  even  as  he  stood  before  the  virgin 
canvas?  The  strains  that  were  falling  now 
from  Signore  Lamberti's  bow  like  a  shower  of 
silver  rain,  had  woven  themselves  into  the  line 
of  his  fate,  and  each  recurrence  of  the  melody 
had  been  an  epoch  in  his  life.  With  a  sudden 
impulse  he  closed  his  eyes  and  lay  back  listening 
to  the  Traumerei  as  it  softly  closed  the  curtain 
of  the  waning  summer. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  LAKE 

rilHE  music  died  away  and  a  strained  hush  fell 
-•-  over  the  room,  pregnant  with  appreciation. 
A  little  shaken,  Signore  Lamberti  reverently  re- 
placed the  old  violin  in  its  case.  For  the  first 
time  now  with  the  witchery  of  its  music  gone, 
Kirke  was  conscious  that  Beatrice  had  slipped 
away  from  tbem,  that  the  glimmer  of  her  white 
gown  was  no  longer  visible  in  the  shadowy  cor- 
ner by  the  doorway. 

A  wild  hope  flared  up  in  the  American's  heart. 
Outside,  the  full  glory  of  the  southern  moon 
mantled  the  cottage  gables  in  a  ghostly  shimmer, 
subtly  etching  to  his  eager  eyes  a  mirage  of  take 
and  cypress,  of  a  chapel  at  the  end  of  a  dancing 
path  of  light,  of  a  line  of  purple  ridges  capped 
serenely  with  the  moon-fire.  Had  Beatrice  too 
felt  the  lure  of  the  moonlit  lake,  this  call  that 
had  been  surging  so  insistently  through  his 
own  blood?  Had  the  wail  of  the  old  vio- 
lin brought  to  her,  too,  its  throng  of  sum- 
mer memories?  If  so  —  but  Kirke's  heart 
leaped  queerly  at  the  thought,  and  with  a  care- 
less glance  at  the  absorbed  group  about  Signore 
Lamberti,  he  stepped  quietly  through  the  long 

369 


370  TRAUMEREI 

window  at  his  side  into  the  rose  garden  be- 
yond. 

But  the  old  garden  was  empty,  and  with  a 
sudden  bounding  of  his  heart,  Kirke  went  hurry- 
ing on,  on  through  the  gardens  and  the  hedge 
of  fire  to  the  road ;  on  through  the  quiet  valley 
to  the  moonlit  lake.  Long  before  he  had  reached 
the  sombre  line  of  cypress  opposite  the  chapel, 
however,  he  had  caught  the  sound  of  the  organ 
dulciana, —  so  soft  and  clear  and  mellow  that  it 
seemed  but  a  breath  of  elfin  music  sweeping 
faintly  over  the  water.  Faint  though  the  echo 
was,  it  sent  the  blood  rioting  through  his  veins 
in  a  fever  of  hope,  and  then,  of  fear.  Always 
Beatrice's  music  bore  to  him  a  winged  message 
of  her  mood  and  to-night  the  ghost-like  elves  of 
melody  might  be  unkind.  Strongly  caught  in  a 
wave  of  memory,  Kirke  hurried  on  to  the  lake 
shore,  whimsically  halting  at  the  spot  where 
early  in  the  summer  he  had  first  watched  the 
ghostly  grey  of  the  shadows  and  caught  the 
blending  sweep  and  play  of  the  twilight  music 
from  the  chapel  across  the  way. 

To-night,  Kirke  caught  his  breath  at'  the  utter 
loveliness  of  it  all ;  the  moon  rode  high  above  the 
water,  flashing  its  brilliant  lane  of  silver  to  the 
chapel  wharf,  touching  the  cross  of  gold  among 
the  trees  with  a  skip  and  sparkle  of  delight. 
The  silent  ripple  of  the  lake  touched  shores  of 
ghostly  velvet ;  but  though  the  shadows  that 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  LAKE   371 

lurked  among  the  trees  were  sable,  it  was  a  sable 
oddly  rimmed  with  quivers  of  light.  Tree  and 
mountain,  lake  and  chapel,  all  lay  in  the  tremu- 
lant heart  of  a  radiance  Ithat  to  Kirke's  eyes 
seemed  supernal. 

Still  the  faint  echo  of  the  dulciana,  scarcely 
as  audible  as  the  murmurous  lap  of  the  water, 
but  even  as  Kirke  bent  forward  in  an  unconscious 
effort  to  fathom  the  mood  of  the  music,  the 
player  opened  the  great  diapason  of  the  organ 
with  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  sent  the  full-toned 
crescendo  echoing  among  the  hills.  Rumbling 
bourdon,  reeds  and  trumpets,  flying  silver-winged 
across  the  lake !  Dear  God !  what  a  paean  of  tri- 
umph! To  Kirke,  subtly  attuned  to  its  stately 
imagery,  it  wove  a  mystic  throng  of  pictures. 
Moonlight  and  music  blended  into  a  curtain  of 
mystery  that  seemed  to  shroud  the  little  chapel 
in  an  unreal  haze,  but  through  it  flitted  the  col- 
ourful phantoms  of  another  century,  of  Camillo 
Lamberti  and  his  violin,  of  Antonius  Stradiva- 
rius  fashioning  into  immortality  the  magic  wood 
that  was  later  to  claim  the  direction  of  Kirke's 
own  life,  of  Niccolo  Lamberti  and  the  Golden 
Cross.  Down  through  the  centuries  came  the 
steady  march  of  events,  filing  on  to  the  climax 
of  the  summer;  shadowy  hosts  of  dead  Lam- 
bertis  flitted  wraith-like  from  beneath  the  fingers 
of  the  girl  in  the  chapel,  crowding  before  the 
American's  fascinated  eyes  in  a  pageant  majestic 


372  TBAUMEREI 

and  picturesque,  but  as  the  song  of  the  organ 
went  on  and  on,  the  elves  of  melody  subtly  fell 
to  interpreting  the  mood  of  the  player  with  tan- 
talising accuracy. 

Triumph,  exaltation,  whispered  the  mocking 
elves;  one  caught  the  surge  of  them  in  every 
chord;  but  the  lake  memories  —  what  of  them? 
Surely  they  would  have  guided  the  girl's  white 
fingers  to  the  Trdumerei!  Surely,  surely,  if  she 
remembered !  but  a  great  depression  settled  over 
the  American  at  the  thought,  and  once  more  the 
elves  of  melody  fell  to  whispering  in  insistent 
mockery. 

"  Fool !  Fool !  "  they  derided.  "  She  does  not 
remember!  Nocturnia  and  the  moonfire,  the 
storm  and  the  Goblin  on  the  Shore,  they  are 
nothing  to  her!  Often  before  has  she  slipped 
away  to  the  chapel  organ  to  play  away  her 
moods;  to-night  the  music  of  Signore  Lamberti's 
violin  was  strongly  emotional,  and,  she  is  keenly 
alive  to  the  stimulus  of  music  as  you  know.  It 
was  that  that  called  her  to  the  lake  and  nothing 
more.  The  lure  of  the  lake  and  memory?  Ab- 
surd! Ever  presumptuous,  Sir  Goblin,  are  you 
not  with  your  lover's  hopes  and  your  lover's 
fears.  Hear  the  rolling  majesty  of  the  organ 
trumpets!  Is  there  aught  in  them  of  your  be- 
loved Trdumerei?  Nay,  mad  lover,  staring  away 
so  gloomily  across  the  lake,  she  plays  but  the 
song  of  the  Conqueror  who  has  climbed  serenely 


THE  LUBE  OP  THE  LAKE   373 

to  the  heights  from  the  troubled  valley  of  the 
summer !  " 

On  and  on  went  the  maddening  song  of  the 
Conqueror,  full  and  rich  and  deep,  with  never 
a  hint  of  the  Traumerei,  and  the  colour  flared 
darkly  in  Kirke's  face.  The  surge  of  a  new  bit- 
terness was  biting  its  way  now  into  his  own  mem- 
ories of  the  summer,  for  as  the  elves  had  said, 
she  did  not  remember! 

With  a  powerful  crescendo,  the  song  of  the 
organ  stopped  abruptly,  its  echo  rumbling  dis- 
tantly among  the  hills;  a  hush  brooded  for  an 
instant  over  the  lake,  a  strange  hush  of  lapping 
water  and  rustling  trees;  then,  from  the  moon- 
lit chapel  swept  the  tones  of  the  organ  flute 
high  and  sweet  above  the  plaintive  accompani- 
ment of  the  reeds. 

The  Traumerei!  With  the  opening  strains, 
Kirke  was  on  his  feet,  conscious  of  a  burning 
wave  that  swept  over  him  and  left  him  dizzy 
and  shaken.  Long  before  the  player  had  re- 
peated the  first  strain,  he  was  paddling  rapidly 
across  the  lake  in  his  canoe.  The  door  of  the 
little  chapel  was  ajar,  the  dark  head  and  white 
gown  of  the  player,  as  they  had  been  that  first 
night  months  ago,  faintly  visible  in  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  a  single  altar  candle.  With  the  final 
chord  of  the  melody,  Kirke  emerged  from  the 
shadows  and  approached  the  organ. 

"  You  were  ever  fond  of  solitude,  Lady  of  the 


374  TRAUMEREI 

Lake,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  Goblins,  I  take  it, 
were  ever  intrusive." 

Beatrice  turned  with  a  start.  Now,  meeting 
the  eyes  of  the  American,  a  hot  wave  of  colour 
swept  over  the  girl's  face  to  the  line  of  her  dark 
hair  and  Kirke  guessed  that  the  Traumerei  of  the 
organ  flute  had  not  been  meant  for  the  ears  of  an 
eavesdropper.  Still  with  ready  self-possession 
the  girl  smiled  demurely,  a  hint  of  the  old  mock- 
ery flashing  up  beneath  her  long,  dark  lashes. 

"  You  are  bent  upon  startling  truant  Nereids, 
Sir  Goblin ! "  she  accused  suddenly,  moving 
swiftly  toward  the  chapel  door.  "  Dear  me !  " 
with  a  gleam  of  mischief  flashing  mockingly  in 
her  eyes,  "  I've  forgotten  the  candle  again !  " 

With  an  impatient  shrug,  Kirke  retraced  his 
footsteps,  well  knowing  that  the  girl  in  a  burst 
of  wilful  mockery  was  tricking  him  as  she  had 
before,  that  when,  once  more,  he  had  reached  the 
chapel  porch  he  would  find  her  gone.  Still  an 
odd  sense  of  eventual  victory,  born  perhaps  of 
the  organ  Traumerei,  burned  steadily  in  his 
veins  and  sent  him  hurrying  on  from  the  altar 
to  the  empty  porch  and  then  on  from  the  chapel 
to  the  water's  edge  where  the  lane  of  greenish- 
silver  stretched  across  the  lake  from  shore  to 
shore. 

Winsome,  elusive  Nocturnia!  Once  more  her 
canoe  rocked  in  a  misty  trail  of  moonlight  but 
a  few  feet  from  the  shore;  once  more  the  figure 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  LAKE  375 

that  bent  to  the  glistening  paddle  was  alive  with 
a  beautiful  insolence  and  mockery,  and  Kirke, 
staring  out  across  the  water,  felt  the  power  of 
words  depart  in  an  overpowering  burst  of  mem- 
ory. Fate  had  freakishly  woven  for  him  again 
the  colour  of  a  night  long  past,  of  a  picture 
sprung  from  its  vivid  memory,  a  picture  of 
moon-mist  and  shadow,  of  a  boat  of  silver  with 
a  mocking  pilot  veiled  in  the  mystic  shimmer 
of  the  moon. 

Unlike  that  other  night,  however,  it  was  the 
girl's  voice  that  first  broke  the  silence. 

"  Why  so  very  silent,  Sir  Goblin?  "  she  called 
lightly. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Kirke,  "  that  every- 
thing about  the  lake  to-night  seems  wonderfully 
symbolic.  The  shore  is  thick  with  shadows,  to 
be  sure,  but  somehow  they  all  seem  like  nothing 
so  much  as  the  velvet  shadows  of  memory  with 
which  the  lake  for  me  at  least  is  eternally 
fringed ! " 

"  Ever  fanciful,  Sir  Goblin !  "  mocked  the  girl. 

"  Ever  fanciful !  "  nodded  Kirke.  "  This  trail 
of  light  at  my  feet  is  symbolic,  too,  I  fancy,"  he 
went  on  insistently.  "  It  is  the  forward  stretch 
of  my  life, —  alight  with  a  new  ambition  and 
purpose.  Oddly  significant,  is  it  not,  that  your 
boat  rocks  in  the  very  heart  of  it,  that  the  moon 
and  the  memories  centre  always  upon  Noc- 
turnia!  Indeed,  I  should  say  the  moonlit  radi- 


376  TEAUMEREI 

ance  of  the  forward  stretch  rests  entirely  with 
the  wilful  Queen  of  the  Southern  Night  who 
may  or  may  not  as  she  chooses  banish  the  bright- 
ness of  the  years  ahead ! "  But  Nocturnia's 
canoe,  with  a  dip  of  the  silver  paddle,  was  dart- 
ing swiftly  away  and  Kirke's  voice  went  as 
swiftly  after  her. 

"  Nocturnia !  "  he  called. 

" Buona  Notte,  Signore  Americano!"  came 
the  mocking  challenge  over  the  water. 

"  Nocturnia ! "  he  called  again,  a  new  note  of 
mastery  in  his  quiet  voice,  and  this  time  the 
fleeing  canoe  halted  uncertainly  in  the  trail  of 
moonlight. 

"  There  is  much  news,"  he  began.  "  Still," 
adroitly,  "one  can  not  call  news  over  such  a 
stretch  of  water." 

There  was  a  single  dip  of  the  silver  paddle,  a 
shower  of  glistening  jewel-drops  as  it  left  the 
water,  and  Nocturnia's  canoe  glided  but  a  few 
feet  toward  the  waiting  American  and  halted. 

"  News  of  what,  Sir  Goblin? "  mocked  the 
pilot. 

"  Of  a  picture  very  like  the  picture  that  the 
moon  has  etched  to-night  over  the  water." 

Again  the  paddle  struck  the  water  with  a  dip 
and  a  flash  and  the  dark,  mocking  face  of  the 
girl  in  the  canoe  grew  frankly  interested. 

"  Then  it  must  be  your  picture  of  Nocturnia  !  " 
she  said. 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  LAKE   377 

"  Yes,"  nodded  Kirke,  "  but  even  yet  I  cannot 
call  such  news  so  far!  It  is  very  wonderful 
news,  Signorina,  news  of  a  letter  from  Paris, 
of  —  " 

"Of  what,  Sir  Goblin?"  Again  the  canoe 
shot  forward  through  the  lane  of  moonlight  and 
a  little  reluctantly  Nocturnia  came  ashore. 

"  There  are  times,  S  ignore  Goblin,"  she  said 
disapprovingly,  "  when  you  are  very  aggravating 
indeed!  It  behooves  not  a  Goblin  of  the  Shore 
to  bribe  a  lake  Nereid.  The  news,  sir ! "  with 
an  imperious  flash  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"  And  news  of  a  Golden  Cross ! "  finished  the 
American,  smiling,  but  even  as  Nocturnia's  eyes 
flashed  their  warm  message  of  congratulation, 
the  girl  herself  had  darted  swiftly  again  toward 
the  waiting  canoe. 

With  a  bound  Kirke  caught  her  hands  and 
held  them. 

"  No ! "  he  said  steadily,  "  you  shall  not  go 
again.  This  time  when  you  glide  away  across 
that  trail  of  light,  it  shall  be  with  me ! " 

"  Sir  Goblin !  "  stormed  the  girl,  colouring,  but 
the  American  was  obdurate. 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  all  the  symbolism  of  the 
lake,  my  lady  of  the  Golden  Cross ! "  he  said 
slowly.  "  The  shadows  of  memory  that  throng 
the  lake  shore  to-night  crowd  about  the  figure 
of  Nocturnia,  to  be  sure,  and] every  shadow  is 

fringed  with  the  radiance  of  love  and  hope,  i   As 

•«  -  ~      i     ••-    •••»•  *. 


378  TRAUMEREI 

the  lake-moon  made  Nocturnia  the  central  figure 
of  the  picture  and  its  inspiration,  so  to-night  it 
etched  a  trail  from  shore  to  shore  to  prove  to 
us  both  that  Nocturnia's  life-boat  rocks  in  the 
very  heart  of  my  destiny." 

"  Months  ago,"  flashed  the  girl  mockingly,  "  I 
rocked  so  in  my  canoe  beneath  the  moon  and 
the  message  of  the  lake  was  nothing  like  so  sym- 
bolic!" 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  nodded  Kirke  quickly,  "  but  then 
it  was  only  a  pale  crescent  of  promise  that  hung 
above  the  lake.  To-night  the  moon  is  at  its 
full!" 

There  was  infinite  longing  in  his  voice  and 
Beatrice  suddenly  looked  up.  Now  as  the  girl 
met  the  compelling  gaze  of  the  American,  her 
beautiful  armour  of  mockery  and  insolence  fell 
from  her  like  a  tattered  cloak.  Once  more  a 
new  Beatrice  stood  before  him,  a  girl  wonder- 
fully sweet  and  winsome  and  alluring,  with  the 
painful  memories  of  a  troubled  summer  glim- 
mering darkly  in  her  lovely  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Kirke,"  she  cried  wistfully,  with  a  little 
sob,  "  you  are  J  God's  own  lover,'  I  think !'  Al- 
ways so  punctilious  and  so  courteous  in  all 
things,  with  only  your  eyes  blazing  their  mes- 
sage for  the  world  to  read!  Shielding  me  as 
you  did  that  first  night,  fighting  my  battles  here 
on  the  lake  shore,  ah,  yes,  I  know ! "  With  a 
wonderful  radiance  in  her  eyes,  the  girl's  hands 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  LAKE  379 

crept  to  his  shoulders.  "  Sir  Goblin !  "  she  said. 
So,  presently,  they  crossed  the  brilliant  lane 
of  silver  together.  And  high  above  the  water 
shone  the  Night  Queen's  coat-of-arms,  an  argent 
moon  of  promise  in  a  field  of  stars. 


THE  END 


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